HAROLD    L.    LEUPP 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVIS 


3/^/2.2. 


HAROLD    L.    LEUPP 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

DAVIS 


WALKING  SHADOWS 


WORKS  BY  ALFRED  NOYES 

COLLECTED  POEMS — 2  Vols. 

THE  LORD  OF  MISRULE 

A  BELGIAN  CHRISTMAS  EVE  (RADA) 

THE  WINE-PRESS 

WALKING  SHADOWS — Prose 

OPEN  BOATS 

TALES  OF  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN 

SHERWOOD 

THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND  AND  OTHER 

POEMS 
DRAKE:    AN  ENGLISH  EPIC 


WALKING  SHADOWS 

SEA  TALES  AND  OTHERS 
BY 

ALFRED  NOYES 


NEW  YORK 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSil Y  CF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
ALFRED  NOYES 


Copyright,  1928,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGI* 

PRELUDE xi 

I.    THE  LIGHT-HOUSE i 

II.     UNCLE  HYACINTH 28 

III.  THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE 82 

IV.  THE  MAN  FROM  BUFFALO 117 

V.    THE  Lusitania  WAITS 138 

VI.     THE  LOG  OF  THE  Evening  Star  .      .      .      .  151 

VII.    GOBLIN  PEACHES i?7 

VIII.    MAY  MARGARET 205 

IX.     MAROONED 249 

X.    THE  GARDEN  ON  THE  CLIFF     .     .     .     .281 

XI.    THE  HAND  OF  THE  MASTER    ....  292 


Prelude 

Of  those  who  fought  and  died 
Unreckoned,  undescried, 

Breaking  no  hearts  but  two  or  three  that 

loved  them; 
Of  multitudes  that  gave 
Their  memories  to  the  grave, 

And  the  unrevealing  seas  of  night  removed 

them; 

Of  those  unnumbered  hosts 
Who  smile  at  all  our  boasts 

And  are  not  blazed  on  any  scroll  of  glory; 
Mere  out-posts  in  the  night, 
Mere  keepers  of  the  light, 

Where  history  stops,  let  shadows  weave  a 
story. 

Shadows,  but  ah,  they  know 
That  history's  pomp  and  show 

Are  shadows  of  a  shadow,  gilt  and  painted. 
They  see  the  accepted  lie 
In  robes  of  state  go  by. 

They  see  the  prophet  stoned,  the  trickster 
sainted. 


And  so  my  shadows  turn 
To  truths  that  they  discern 

Beyond  the  ordered  "facts"  that  fame  would 

cherish. 

They  walk  awhile  with  dreams, 
They  follow  flying  gleams 

And  lonely  lights  at  sea  that  pass  and  per 
ish. 

Not  tragic  all  indeed, 
Not  all  without  remede 

Of    clean-edged    mirth.     Our   Rosalie   of 

laughter, 

The  bayonet  of  a  jest, 
May  pierce  the  devil's  breast, 
And  give  us  room  and  time  for  grief,  here 
after. 

So  let  them  weep  or  smile 
Or  kneel,  or  dance  awhile, 

Fantastic  shades,  by  wandering  fires  be 
gotten  ; 

Remembrancers  of  themes 
That  dawn  may  mock  as  dreams. 

Then  let  them  sleep,  at  dawn,  with  the  for 
gotten. 


WALKING  SHADOWS 

i 

THE  LIGHT-HOUSE 

THE  position  of  a  light-house  keeper,  in 
a  sea  infested  by  submarines,  is  a  pe 
culiar  one;  but  Peter  Ramsay,  keeper 
of  the  Hatchets'  Light,  had  reasons  for  feeling 
that  his  lonely  tower,  six  miles  from  the  main 
land,  was  the  happiest  habitation  in  the  world. 
At  five  o'clock,  on  a  gusty  October  after 
noon,  of  the  year  1916,  Peter  had  just  finished 
his  tea  and  settled  down,  with  a  pipe  and  the 
last  number  of  the  British  Weekly,  for  five 
minutes'  reading,  before  he  turned  to  the  secret 
of  his  happiness  again.  Precisely  at  this  mo 
ment,  the  Commander  of  the  U-99,  three  miles 
away  to  the  north,  after  making  sure  through 
his  periscope  that  there  were  no  patrol  boats  in 
the  vicinity,  rose  to  the  surface,  and  began  to 
look  for  the  Hatchets'.  He,  too,  had  reasons 
for  wishing  to  get  inside  the  light-house,  if 


2  WALKING  SHADOWS 

only  for  half  an  hour.  It  was  possible  only  by 
trickery;  but  he  thought  it  might  be  done  un 
der  cover  of  darkness,  and  he  was  about  to 
reconnoiter. 

When  he  first  emerged,  he  had  some  diffi 
culty  in  descrying  his  goal  across  that  confused 
sea.  His  eye  was  guided  by  a  patch  of  foam, 
larger  than  the  ordinary  run  of  white-caps, 
and  glittering  in  the  evening  sun  like  a  black 
thorn  blossom.  As  the  sky  brightened  behind 
it,  he  saw,  rising  upright,  like  the  single  slim 
pistil  of  those  rough  white  petals,  the  faint 
shaft  of  the  light-house  itself. 

He  stole  nearer,  till  these  pretty  fancies  were 
swallowed  up  in  the  savagery  of  the  place.  It 
greeted  him  with  a  deep  muffled  roar  as  of  a 
hundred  sea-lions,  and  the  air  grew  colder 
with  its  thin  mists  of  spray.  The  black  thorns 
and  white  petals  became  an  angry  ship-wreck 
ing  ring  of  ax-headed  rocks,  furious  with 
surf ;  and  the  delicate  pistil  assumed  the  stature 
of  the  Nelson  Column. 

It  made  his  head  reel  to  look  up  at  its  firm 
height  from  the  tossing  conning-tower,  as  he 
circled  the  reef,  making  his  observations.  He 
noted  the  narrow  door,  twenty  feet  up,  in  the 
smooth  wall  of  the  shaft.  There  was  no  way 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE  3 

of  approaching  it  until  the  rope-ladder  was  let 
down  from  within.  But,  after  midnight, 
when  the  custodian's  wits  might  be  a  little 
drowsy,  he  thought  his  plan  might  succeed. 
He  noted  the  pool  on  the  reef,  and  the  big 
boulder  near  the  base  of  the  tower.  There 
was  only  one  thing  which  he  did  not  see,  an  un 
important  thing  in  war-time.  He  did  not  see 
the  beauty  of  that  unconscious  monument  to 
the  struggling  spirit  of  man. 

Its  lofty  silence  and  endurance,  in  their 
stern  contrast  with  the  tumult  below,  had 
touched  the  imagination  of  many  wanderers 
on  that  sea;  for  it  soared  to  the  same  sky  as 
their  spires  on  land,  and  its  beauty  was  height 
ened  by  the  simplicity  of  its  practical  purpose. 
But  it  made  no  more  impression  on  Captain 
Bernstein  than  on  the  sea-gulls  that  mewed 
and  swooped  around  it. 

When  his  observations  were  completed,  the 
U-99  sheered  off  and  submerged.  She  had  to 
lie  "doggo,"  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  for  the 
next  few  hours ;  and  there  were  several  of  her 
sisters  waiting,  a  mile  or  so  to  the  north,  on 
a  fine  sandy  bottom,  to  compare  notes.  Two 
of  these  sisters  were  big  submarine  mine-lay 
ers  of  a  new  type.  The  U-99  settled  down 


4  WALKING  SHADOWS 

near  them,  and  began  exchanging  under-water 
messages  at  once. 

"If  you  lay  your  mines  properly,  and  lie  as 
near  as  possible  to  the  harbor  mouth,  you  can 
leave  the  rest  to  me.  They  will  come  out  in 
a  hurry,  and  you  ought  to  sink  two-thirds  of 
them."  This  was  the  final  message  from  Cap 
tain  Bernstein ;  and,  shortly  after  eight  o'clock, 
all  the  other  submarines  moved  off,  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  coast.  The  U-99  remained  in 
her  place,  till  the  hour  was  ripe. 

About  midnight,  she  came  to  the  sur 
face  again.  Everything  seemed  propitious. 
There  were  no  patrols  in  sight;  and,  in  any 
case,  Captain  Bernstein  knew  that  they  seldom 
came  within  a  mile  of  the  light-house,  for 
ships  gave  it  a  wide  berth,  and  there  was  not 
likely  to  be  good  hunting  in  the  neighborhood. 
This  was  why  the  U-boats  had  found  it  so 
useful  as  a  rendezvous  lately. 

It  was  a  moonless  night;  and,  as  the  U-99 
stole  towards  the  Hatchets'  for  the  second 
time,  even  Captain  Bernstein  was  impressed 
by  the  spectacle  before  him.  Against  a  sky 
of  scudding  cloud  and  flying  stars,  the  light 
house  rose  like  the  scepter  of  the  oldest  Sea- 
god.  The  mighty  granite  shaft  was  gripped 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE  5 

at  the  base  by  black  knuckles  of  rock  in  a 
welter  of  foam.  A  hundred  feet  above,  the 
six-foot  reflectors  of  solid  crystal  sheathed  the 
summit  with  fire,  and  flashed  as  they  revolved 
there  like  the  facets  of  a  single  burning  jewel. 
"They  could  be  smashed  with  a  three-inch 
gun,"  thought  Bernstein,  "and  they  are  very 
costly.  Many  thousand  pounds  of  damage 
could  thus  be  done,  and  perhaps  many  ships 
endangered."  But  he  concluded,  with  some 
regret,  that  his  other  plans  were  more  promis 
ing. 

It  was  long  past  Peter's  usual  bedtime ;  but 
he  was  trimming  his  oil  lamp,  just  now,  in  his 
tiny  octagonal  sitting-room,  half-way  up  the 
tower.  He  had  been  busy  all  the  evening, 
with  the  secret  of  his  happiness,  which  was  a 
very  queer  one  indeed.  He  was  trying  to 
write  a  book,  trying  and  failing.  His  papers 
were  scattered  all  over  the  worn  red  cloth 
that  tried — and  failed — to  cover  his  oak  table, 
exactly  as  poor  Peter's  language  was  trying 
to  clothe  his  thought.  Indeed,  there  were 
many  clues  to  his  life  and  character  in  that 
room,  which  served  many  purposes.  It  had 
only  one  window,  hardly  larger  than  the  ar- 


6  WALKING  SHADOWS 

row-defying  slits  of  a  Norman  castle.  It  was 
his  kitchen,  and  a  cooking-stove  was  fitted 
compactly  into  a  corner.  It  was  his  li 
brary;  and,  facing  the  window,  there  was  a 
book-shelf,  containing  several  tattered  vol 
umes  by  Mark  Rutherford;  a  Bible;  the  "Im 
pregnable  Rock  of  Holy  Scripture,"  by  Glad 
stone;  the  "First  Principles"  of  Herbert 
Spencer;  and  the  Essays  of  Emerson.  There 
was  also  a  small  volume,  bound  in  blue  leather, 
called  "The  Wonders  of  the  Deep."  The 
leather  binding  was  protected  by  a  brown 
paper  jacket,  for  it  was  a  prize,  awarded  by 
the  Westport  Grammar  School,  in  1864,  to 
Peter  Ramsay,  aged  fourteen,  for  his  excel 
lence  in  orthography.  This,  of  course,  was 
the  beginning  of  all  his  dreams;  and  it  was 
still  their  sustainment,  though  the  death  of 
his  father,  who  had  been  the  captain  of  a 
small  coasting  steamer,  had  thrown  Peter  on 
the  world  before  he  was  fifteen,  and  ended 
his  hopes  of  the  scholarship,  which  was  to 
have  carried  him  eventually  to  the  heights. 

The  bound  volumes  were  buttressed  be 
tween  piles  of  the  British  Weekly.  The  only 
picture  on  the  wall  was  a  framed  oleograph  of 
Gladstone,  his  chief  hero,  though  Peter  had 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE  7 

long  ago  renounced  the  theology  of  the  Im 
pregnable  Rock.  Whether  the  great  states 
man  deserved  this  worship  or  not  is  a  matter 
for  historians.  The  business  of  this  chronicle 
is  to  record  the  views  of  Peter,  and  these  were 
quite  clear. 

He  was  restless  to-night.  It  was  his  sixty- 
sixth  birthday,  and  it  reminded  him  that  he 
was  behindhand  with  his  great  work.  No 
body  else  had  reminded  him  of  it,  for  he  was 
quite  alone  in  the  world.  He  was  beginning 
to  wonder,  almost  for  the  first  time,  whether 
he  was  really  destined  to  fail.  He  had  begun 
to  look  his  age  at  last;  but  he  was  a  fine  figure 
of  a  man  still.  His  white  hair  and  flowing 
white  beard  framed  a  face  of  the  richest  ma 
hogany  brown,  in  which  the  blood  mantled 
like  wine  over  the  cheek-bones.  His  deep 
eyes,  of  the  marine  blue,  that  belongs  only 
to  the  folk  of  the  sea,  were  haunted  sometimes 
by  visionary  fires,  like  those  in  the  eyes  of  an 
imaginative  child.  He  might  have  posed 
for  the  original  fisherman  of  his  first  name. 
Of  course,  he  was  regarded  as  a  little  eccentric 
by  the  dwellers  on  the  coast,  whom  he  had 
often  amazed  by  what  they  called  his  "inno 
cence."  The  red  nosed  landlord  of  the  Blue 


8  WALKING  SHADOWS 

Dolphin  had  often  been  heard,  on  Sundays, 
to  say  that  we  should  all  do  well  if  we  were 
as  innocent  as  Peter.  When  he  visited  the 
little  town  of  Westport  (which  was  now  a 
naval  base),  the  urchins  in  the  street  some 
times  expressed  their  view  of  the  matter  by 
waiting  until  he  was  safely  out  of  hearing,  and 
then  crowing  like  cocks. 

Nobody  knew  of  Peter  Ramsay's  secret,  or 
the  urchins  might  not  have  waited  at  all,  and 
even  the  kindest  of  his  friends  would  have  re 
garded  him  as  daft.  But  the  comedy  was  not 
without  its  tragic  aspect.  Peter  Ramsay  may 
have  been  cracked,  but  it  was  with  the  peculiar 
kind  of  crack  that  you  get  in  the  everlasting 
hills,  a  rift  that  shows  the  sky.  With  his  im 
perfect  equipment  and  hopeless  lack  of  tech 
nique,  he  was  trying  to  write  down  certain 
truths,  for  the  lack  of  which  the  civilized 
world,  at  that  moment,  was  in  danger  of  de 
struction. 

This  does  not  mean  that  Peter  was  the  sole 
possessor  of  those  truths.  He  was  only  one 
among  millions  of  simple  and  unsophisticated 
souls,  all  over  the  world,  who  possessed  those 
truths  dumbly,  and  knew,  with  complete  cer 
tainty,  that  their  intellectual  leaders,  for  the 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE  9 

most  part,  lacked  them,  or  had  lost  them  in  a 
multitude  of  details.  These  dumb  millions 
were  right  about  certain  important  matters; 
and  their  leaders,  for  all  their  dialectical  clev 
erness,  had  lost  sight  of  the  truth  which  has 
always  proceeded  ex  ore  infantium.  It  was 
the  tragedy  of  the  twentieth  century,  and  it 
had  culminated  in  the  tragedy  of  philosophi 
cal  Germany.  There  were  certain  features  of 
modern  books,  modern  paintings,  and  modern 
music,  that  mopped  and  mowed  like  faces 
through  the  bars  of  a  mad-house,  clamoring 
for  dishonor  and  brutality  in  every  depart 
ment  of  life.  These  things  could  not  be  dis 
sociated  from  the  international  tragedy. 
They  were  its  heralds.  Peter  Ramsay  was 
one  of  those  obscure  millions  who  were  the 
most  important  figures  in  Armageddon  be 
cause  they,  and  they  alone,  in  our  modern 
world,  had  retained  the  right  to  challenge  the 
sophistries  of  Germany.  They  had  not 
needed  the  war  to  teach  them  the  reality  of 
evil ;  and  if  they  had  sinned,  they  had  never 
for  a  moment  tried  to  prove  that  they  did  right 
in  sinning. 

Peter  knew  all  this,  though  he  would  not 
have  said  it  in  so  many  words.     In  his  book, 


10  WALKING  SHADOWS 

he  was  trying  to  meet  the  main  onset  of  all 
those  destructive  forces.  He  had  realized 
that  the  modern  world  had  no  faith,  since  the 
creeds  had  gone  into  the  melting  pot;  and  he 
was  trying  to  write  down,  plainly,  for  plain 
men,  exactly  what  he  believed. 

He  turned  over  the  red-lined  pages  of  the 
big  leather-bound  ledger,  half  diary,  half  com 
monplace  book,  in  which,  for  the  last  forty 
years,  he  had  made  his  notes.  It  was  a  queer 
medley,  beginning  with  passages  written  in 
his  youth,  that  recalled  many  of  his  old  strug 
gles.  There  was  one,  in  particular,  that  al 
ways  reminded  him  of  a  school  friend  named 
Herbert  Potts,  who  had  eventually  won  the 
coveted  scholarship.  They  used  to  go  for 
walks  together,  over  the  hills,  and  talk  about 
science  and  religion. 

"So  you  don't  believe  there  is  any  future 
life,"  Peter  had  said  to  him  one  day. 

"Not  for  the  individual,"  replied  Herbert 
Potts,  adjusting  his  glasses,  with  a  singularly 
intellectual  expression. 

"But  if  there  is  none  for  the  individual,  it 
means  the  end  of  all  we  are  fighting  for,  be 
cause  the  race  will  come  to  an  end,  eventu 
ally,"  said  Peter.  "Why,  think,  Potts,  think, 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE  11 

it  means  that  all  your  progress  drops  over  a 
precipice  at  last.  It  means  that  instead  of 
the  Figure  of  Love,  we  must  substitute  the 
Figure  of  Death,  stretching  out  his  arms  and 
saying  to  the  whole  human  race,  'Come  unto 
Me!  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto 
Mef? 

"I  am  afraid  all  the  evidence  points  that 
way,"  said  Potts,  and  as  he  had  just  passed 
the  London  matriculation  examination,  the 
words  rang  like  a  death-knell  in  Peter's  fool 
ish  heart.  He  remembered  how  the  words 
had  recurred  to  him  in  his  dreams  that  night, 
and  how  he  awoke  in  the  gray  dawn  to  find 
that  his  pillow  was  wet  with  tears. 

There  were  many  other  memories  in  his 
book,  memories  of  the  long  struggle,  the  wrest 
ling  with  the  angel,  and  at  last  the  music  of 
that  loftier  certainty  which  he  longed  to  im 
part. 

A  little  after  midnight,  he  threw  aside  the 
hopeless  chaos  of  the  manuscript,  into  which 
he  had  been  trying  to  distil  the  essence  of  his 
scrap-book.  He  rose  and  went  upstairs  to 
his  bedroom  on  the  next  floor.  It  was  a  lit 
tle  smaller  than  his  sitting-room,  and  con 
tained  a  camp-bed,  a  wash-stand,  with  a 


12  WALKING  SHADOWS 

cracked  blue  jug  and  basin,  and  a  chest  of 
drawers.  Over  the  head  of  the  bed  was  a  pho 
togravure  reproduction  of  The  Light  of  the 
World;  and  on  the  wall,  facing  it,  an  illumi 
nated  prayer:  Lighten  our  darkness,  we  be 
seech  Thee,  O  Lord!  Under  this,  affixed  to 
the  wall,  was  the  telephone  which  connected 
the  Hatchets'  with  the  Naval  Station  on  the 
coast,  by  an  under-sea  wire. 

But  in  spite  of  this  modern  invention,  Peter 
Ramsay  had  quietly  gone  back  through  the 
centuries.  He  looked  as  if  he  were  talking 
to  a  very  great  distance  indeed,  a  distance  so 
great  that  it  became  an  immediate  presence. 
(Do  not  mathematicians  declare  that  if  you 
could  throw  a  stone  into  infinity,  it  would  re 
turn  to  your  hand?)  He  was  kneeling  down 
by  the  bed,  clasping  his  hands,  lifting  his  face, 
closing  his  eyes,  and  moving  his  lips,  exactly 
like  a  child  at  his  prayers. 

It  is  an  odd  fact,  and  doubtless  it  would 
have  fortified  the  great  ironic  intellects  of 
our  day  (though  seventy  feet  in  this  unfath 
omable  universe  may  hardly  be  reckoned  as 
depth)  to  know  that  in  the  darkness  of  the 
reef  outside,  seventy  feet  below,  four  shadowy 
figures  had  just  landed  from  a  collapsible 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE  13 

boat,  belonging  to  the  U-99.  Three  of  them 
were  now  hauling  it  out  of  reach  of  the  waves. 
The  fourth  was  Captain  Bernstein.  He 
stood,  fingering  his  revolver,  and  looking  up 
at  the  two  lighted  windows. 

Concerning  these  things,  Peter  received  no 
enlightenment;  but  he  rose  from  his  knees 
with  a  glowing  countenance,  and  hurried 
down  to  his  work  again. 

"I'll  begin  at  the  beginning,"  he  muttered. 

He  took  a  clean  sheet  of  paper  and  headed 
it:  Chapter  I.  Under  this,  he  wrote  the 
first  four  words  of  the  Bible:  "In  the  begin 
ning,  God!'  Then  he  crossed  them  out,  and 
wrote  again:  "First  Principles,"  as  a  better 
means  of  approach  to  the  moderns. 

He  consulted  his  ledger,  and  decided  that 
a  certain  paragraph,  written  long  ago,  must 
take  the  first  place  in  his  book.  He  wrote  it 
down  just  as  it  stood. 

"We  have  forgotten  the  first  principles  of 
straight  thinking — the  axioms.  We  have  for 
gotten  that  the  whole  is  greater  than  the  part. 
Hence  comes  much  fallacy  among  modern 
writers,  even  great  ones,  like  that  pessimist 
who  has  said  that  man,  the  creature,  possesses 
more  nobility  than  that  from  Which  he  came. 


14  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"One  thing  must  be  acknowledged  as 
known,  even  by  agnostics, — namely,  that  if  we 
have  experienced  here  on  earth  the  grandeurs 
of  the  soul  of  Beethoven  and  Shakespeare, 
there  must  be  at  the  heart  of  things,  before 
ever  this  earth  was  born,  something  infinitely 
greater.  It  is  infinitely  greater  because  it  is 
the  Producer — not  the  Product. 

"There  are  some  who  say  that  this  is  only 
putting  the  mystery  back  a  stage.  This  is  not 
a  true  statement.  The  mystery  is  that  there 
should  be  anything  in  existence  at  all.  The 
moment  you  have  a  grain  of  sand  in  existence, 
the  impossible  has  happened,  and  the  miracle 
of  the  things  that  we  see  around  us  can  only 
be  referred  to  some  primal  miracle,  greater 
than  all,  because  it  contained  all  their  possi 
bilities  within  itself. 

"Beyond  this,  we  are  all  agnostics.  But  our 
reason,  building  on  what  we  see  around  us, 
carries  us  thus  far.  Modern  thinkers  have  re 
versed  this  process.  They  begin  with  man  as 
the  summit,  and  explain  him  by  something 
less.  This  again  they  explain  by  something 
less;  and  slowly  whittle  away  all  the  visible 
universe  till  they  arrive  at  the  smallest  possi 
ble  residuum.  There  is  no  more  tragic  spec- 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE  15 

tacle  in  this  age  than  that  of  the  philosophers 
who,  like  Herbert  Spencer,  having  reduced 
the  whole  universe  to  a  nebula,  try  to  bridge 
the  gulf  between  this  nebula  and  nothingness. 
The  great  intellect  of  Spencer  grovels  below 
the  mental  capacity  of  a  child  of  ten  as  he 
makes  this  absurd  attempt,  announcing  that 
perhaps  the  primal  nebula  might  be  conceived 
as  thinning  itself  out  until  nothingness  were 
reached.  It  is  the  agnostics  who  evade  the 
issue.  For  there  are  certain  things  here  and 
now  which  we  must  accept.  We  know  that 
Love  and  Thought  are  greater  than  the  dust 
to  which  we  consign  them.  There  is  only  one 
choice  before  us.  Either  there  is  nothing  be 
hind  these  things,  or  else  there  is  everything 
behind  them.  If  we  say  that  there  is  nothing 
behind  them,  all  our  human  struggle  goes  for 
nothing.  We  abandon  even  the  axioms  of  our 
reason,  and  we  are  doubly  traitors  to  the  divine 
light  that  lives  in  every  man.  If  we  say  that 
there  is  everything  behind  the  universe,  each 
of  us  has  his  own  private  door  into  that  divine 
reality,  the  door  of  his  own  heart." 

At  this  moment  three  of  the  shadowy  figures 
on  the  reef  below  were  ensconcing  themselves 
behind  a  boulder  of  rock,  close  to  the  base  of 


16  WALKING  SHADOWS 

the  tower,  and  the  fourth  figure  was  groping 
about  on  the  reef,  collecting  a  handful  of 
stones. 

"I  have  heard  men  say,"  Peter  continued, 
"that  they  cannot  believe  in  a  God  who  would 
permit  all  the  suffering  on  this  earth,  or  else  he 
must  be  a  limited  God  who  cannot  help  him 
self. 

"This  is  another  question  involving  the  free 
dom  of  the  will.  How  long  would  a  world 
hold  together  if  we  could  all  depend  on  a 
miracle  to  help  us  at  every  turn,  or  even  to 
save  the  innocent  from  the  consequences  of 
our  guilt?  Those  who  ask  the  question 
usually  assume  that  our  sufferings  here  are  the 
end  of  all.  The  fact  that  the  opposite  assump 
tion  accords  better  with  our  sense  of  justice  is 
surely  no  reason  for  denying  it,  especially 
when  it  follows  from  the  answer  given  in  the 
first  paragraph.  These  men,  asking  for  mi 
raculous  proof  of  omnipotence,  to  save  the 
world  from  suffering,  are  asking  for  nothing 
less  than  the  abolition  of  law  in  the  universe; 
and  it  is  only  in  law  that  freedom  can  be  found. 
The  rising  of  the  sun  cannot  be  timed  to  suit 
each  individual;  but  this  is  what  modern 
thinkers  demand.  They  say  that  an  all-pow- 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE  17 

erful  God  could  do  even  this.  When  they 
have  settled  between  themselves  exactly  what 
they  wish,  doubtless  the  Almighty  could  an 
swer  their  prayer.  Till  then,  it  is  better  to 
say  'Thy  law  is  a  lantern  unto  my  feet.' ' 

At  this  moment  a  stone  came  through  the 
little  window  behind  Peter.  The  glass  scat 
tered  itself  in  splinters  all  over  his  red  table 
cloth.  He  leapt  to  his  feet,  blew  the  lamp  out, 
and  went  to  the  window.  He  could  see  noth 
ing  in  the  darkness  at  first;  but  as  he  stood 
and  listened,  he  thought  he  heard  a  voice  in 
the  pauses  of  the  wind,  crying  for  help. 

Instantly,  he  hurried  out  and  down'  the 
winding  stair  to  the  narrow  door.  He  shot 
back  the  great  bolts,  and  opened  it.  He  stood 
there  fifteen  feet  above  the  rocks,  framed  in 
the  opening,  his  white  hair  and  beard  blowing 
about  him,  as  he  peered  to  right  and  left. 

"Come  down  and  help  us,  for  God's  sake!" 
the  voice  cried  again. 

And  as  Peter's  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the 
darkness,  he  saw  a  dark  figure  crawling  labori 
ously  over  the  reef  to  the  foot  of  the  tower, 
where  it  fell  as  if  in  a  faint.  Peter's  only 
thought  was  that  a  fishing  boat  had  foundered. 
He  dropped  the  rope  ladder  at  once  and  de- 


i8  WALKING  SHADOWS 

scended.  He  stooped  over  the  fallen  man. 
In  the  same  flash  of  time,  he  recognized  that 
this  was  an  enemy  seaman,  and  three  more 
shadowy  figures  leapt  from  their  hiding-place 
behind  a  boulder  of  rock  and  gripped  him. 

"There  is  no  cause  for  fear,"  said  their 
leader,  rising  to  his  feet.  "Our  boat  has 
foundered ;  but  we  shall  die  of  cold  if  we  stay 
out  here.  You  must  take  us  into  the  light 
house." 

Peter  regarded  them  curiously,  saying  noth 
ing.  The  leader  went  up  the  ladder,  and 
beckoned  to  the  others,  who  ordered  Peter  to 
go  next,  and  then  followed  him. 

"I  regret  that  it  was  necessary  to  smash  your 
window,"  said  Captain  Bernstein,  as  the  queer 
group  gathered  round  the  lamp  in  Peter's 
living  room.  "But  we  might  have  died  out 
there  on  a  night  like  this,  before  you  could 
have  heard  us  shouting.  We  shall  not  harm 
you,  although  there  are  four  of  us.  We  are 
in  danger  ourselves.  My  friends  and  I  are 
sick  of  this  work;  and,  if  we  are  sure  of  good 
treatment,  we  are  prepared  to  help  the  British 
with  all  the  information  in  our  possession." 

"How  did  you  escape  from  the  submarine?" 
said  Peter. 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE  19 

"We  were  alone  on  deck,"  replied  Bern 
stein,  "and  we  took  our  chance  of  swimming 
for  the  Hatchets'." 

Peter  surveyed  the  four  drenched  figures 
thoughtfully.  One  of  them  was  not  realistic 
enough  to  satisfy  him.  There  were  several 
obviously  dry  patches  about  the  shoulders. 

"There's  a  pool  on  the  reef,"  said  Peter  at 
last  to  this  man.  "Did  you  find  it  too  cold?" 

A  change  came  over  Bernstein's  face  at  once. 

"There's  no  time  to  be  wasted,"  he  said. 
"If  you  want  to  help  your  country,  go  to  your 
telephone  and  give  this  message  to  the  naval 
base,  exactly  as  I  tell  it  to  you.  You  must  say 
you  have  just  sighted  three  submarines,  two 
hundred  yards  due  north  of  the  Hatchets' 
light.  You  must  say  that  you  have  sighted 
them  yourself,  because  they  would  not  take 
our  word  for  it;  and  you  must  not  say  anything 
about  our  being  here  at  present.  If  you  de 
part  from  these  instructions,  you  will  be  shot 
instantly.  Now,  then,  go  to  your  telephone 
and  speak." 

Peter  gathered  up  his  beloved  leather- 
bound  book  from  the  table,  and  held  it  under 
his  arm.  It  was  his  most  precious  possession, 
and  the  protective  act  was  quite  unconscious. 


20  WALKING  SHADOWS 

Then,  for  the  second  time  that  night,  he  went 
into  his  bed-room,  followed  by  the  four  Ger 
mans.  He  was  white  and  shaking.  He 
could  not  understand  what  these  men  were 
after,  and  the  message  they  proposed  seemed 
to  be  useful  to  his  own  side.  After  all,  the 
only  kind  of  message  that  he  could  send  would 
be  something  very  like  it.  He  might  as  well 
deliver  it,  since  these  crazy  autocrats  had  de 
cided  that  it  must  be  given  thus,  and  not  other 
wise. 

He  laid  the  precious  book  down  on  the  bed, 
turned  to  the  telephone,  and  lifted  the  receiver 
to  his  ear.  As  he  did  so,  the  cold  muzzle  of 
a  revolver  pressed  against  his  right  temple. 
The  first  buzzings  of  the  telephone  resolved 
themselves  into  a  voice  from  the  coast  of 
England,  asking  what  he  wanted.  Then,  it 
seemed  as  if  a  new  light  were  thrown  upon  the 
character  of  the  words  he  was  about  to  speak. 
He  knew  instinctively  that,  if  he  spoke  them, 
he  would  be  working  for  the  enemy. 

In  the  same  instant,  he  saw  exactly  what  he 
must  do. 

"This  is  Peter  Ramsay  speaking/'  he  said, 
"from  the  Hatchets'  Light.  I  have  just 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE  21 

sighted  three  submarines  due  north  of  the 
Hatchets'." 

He  paused.     Then,  with  a  rush,  he  said : 

"Trap!  Germans  in  light-house,  forcing 
me  to  say  this!" 

The  hand  of  one  of  his  captors  struck  down 
the  hook  of  the  receiver.  In  the  same  instant, 
the  shot  rang  out,  and  Peter  Ramsay  dropped 
sidelong,  a  mere  bundle  of  old  clothes  and 
white  hair,  dabbled  with  blood. 

The  German  at  the  telephone  replaced  the 
receiver  on  the  hook  which  he  was  still  hold 
ing  down. 

"Crazy  old  fool,"  muttered  Bernstein.  He 
was  staring  at  the  red-lined  scrap-book  on 
the  bed.  It  lay  open  at  a  page  describing  in 
Peter's  big  sprawling  hand,  an  open-air  serv 
ice  among  some  Welsh  miners  which  he  had 
once  witnessed,  a  memorial  service  on  the  day 
of  Gladstone's  funeral.  He  had  been  greatly 
impressed  by  their  choral  singing  of  what  was 
supposed  to  be  Gladstone's  favorite  hymn,  and 
it  ended  with  a  quotation : 

"While  I  draw  this  fleeting  breath, 
When  my  eyelids  close  In  death, 
When  I  soar  through  tracts  unknown. 


22  WALKING  SHADOWS 

See  Thee  on  Thy  Judgment  Throne, 
Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee!' 

The  murderer  stooped  and  laid  the  revolver 
near  the  right  hand  of  the  dead  man.  One  of 
his  men  touched  him  on  the  elbow  as  he  did  it, 
and  pointed  to  Peter's  own  old-fashioned  re 
volver  on  the  little  shelf  beside  the  bed.  Cap 
tain  Bernstein  nodded  and  smiled.  The  idea 
was  a  good  one,  and  he  put  Peter's  own  re 
volver  in  his  stiffening  fingers.  He  had  just 
succeeded  in  making  it  look  quite  a  realistic 
suicide,  when  the  telephone  bell  rang  sharply, 
making  him  start  upright,  as  if  a  hand  were 
laid  upon  his  shoulder.  He  took  the  receiver 
again  and  listened. 

"Can't  hear,"  he  said,  trying  to  imitate 
Peter's  gruff  voice.  "No — I  dropped  the 
telephone  on  the  floor — no — it  was  a  mistake — 
no — I  said  three  submarines — two  hundred 
yards  due  north  of  the  Hatchets  Light — all 
right,  sir." 

He  hung  the  receiver  up  again,  and  looked 
at  the  others. 

"We  may  succeed  yet,"  he  said.  "Come 
quickly." 

A  minute  later  they  were  standing  on  the 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE  23 

lee  of  the  reef.  Bernstein  blew  a  whistle 
thrice.  It  was  answered  from  the  darkness 
by  another,  shrill  as  the  cry  of  a  sea-gull ;  and 
in  five  minutes  more,  the  four  men  and  the 
collapsible  boat  were  aboard  their  submarine. 
It  submerged  at  once,  and  went  due  south  at 
twelve  knots  an  hour  below  the  unrevealing 
seas. 

Commander  Pickering,  the  officer  on  duty 
at  the  naval  base,  was  not  sure  whether  it  was 
worth  while  paying  any  attention  to  the  mes 
sage  from  the  old  man  at  the  Hatchets'.  He 
went  to  the  window  and  looked  at  the  starry 
flash  of  the  light-house  in  the  distance. 

"Old  Peter  probably  sighted  a  school  of 
porpoises.  They  frightened  him  into  a  fit," 
he  said. 

The  two  men  of  the  naval  reserve  who  were 
waiting  for  orders,  watched  him  like  school 
boys  expecting  a  holiday;  but  he  could  not 
make  up  his  mind.  He  left  the  window  and 
studied  the  big  chart  on  the  wall,  where  the 
movements  of  a  dozen  submarines  were 
marked  in  red  ink  from  point  to  point  as  the 
daily  reports  came  in,  till  the  final  red  star 
announced  their  destruction.  He  chewed  his 


24  WALKING  SHADOWS 

lip  as  he  pondered.  There  was  a  fleet  of 
submarine  destroyers  in  Westport  Harbor  at 
this  moment,  but  they  had  only  just  come  in 
from  a  long  spell,  and  he  was  loath  to  turn 
them  out  on  a  wild-goose  chase. 

"Confound  the  old  idiot,"  he  muttered 
again.  "He  can't  even  talk  straight. 
Wanted  to  say  that  he  had  seen  submarines, 
and  starts  jabbering  about  Germans  in  the 
light-house.  Ring  him  up  again,  Dawkins, 
and  find  out  whether  he  is  drunk  or  talking  in 
his  sleep." 

Dawkins  went  to  the  telephone.  For  five 
minutes,  he  alternately  growled  into  the 
mouth-piece  and  moved  the  hook  up  and 
down. 

"Don't  get  any  answer  at  all,  sir." 

"That's  queer.  He  can't  be  asleep  yet  after 
that  beautiful  conversation." 

Commander  Pickering  went  to  the  window 
again  with  his  night-glasses. 

"Damned  if  there  isn't  a  light  in  both  his 
rooms,  and  it's  getting  on  for  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  There's  something  rum  hap 
pening.  We'll  take  a  sporting  chance  on  it, 
and  make  a  regular  sweep  of  the  bay.  I'll  go 
out  to  the  Hatchets'  myself  on  the  Silver  King. 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE  25 

I  think  the  old  boy  is  dotty,  and  I  suppose  the 
Admiral  will  have  my  scalp  for  it  to-morrow; 
but  there's  just  one  chance  in  a  hundred  thou 
sand  that  Mr.  Peter  Ramsay  did  spot  a  squad 
ron  of  U-boats.  If  so,  we  may  as  well  strafe 
them  properly." 

He  went  to  the  telephone  himself  this  time, 
and  began  issuing  orders  all  over  the  base. 
His  final  sentence  was  an  after-thought,  an 
echo  and  an  elaboration  of  the  queer  warning 
he  had  received  from  the  Hatchets'. 

"Don't  go  straight  out.  Make  a  sweep 
round  by  the  south.  There  may  be  a  trap; 
and  you  may  as  well  let  the  dirigibles  go  ahead 
of  you  and  do  some  scouting." 

"It  often  happens  with  these  chaps,"  said 
Commander  Pickering  to  Dawkins,  as  they 
stood  in  Peter's  bed-room  an  hour  before 
dawn.  "It's  the  lonely  life  that  does  it. 
They  ought  always  to  have  a  couple  of  men 
in  these  places ;  and,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
war,  of  course,  there  would  have  been  two  men 
at  the  Hatchets'.  Look  here,  at  all  this  stuff. 
The  poor  chap  had  religious  mania  or  some 
thing.  See  what  he  has  written  on  these 
scraps  of  paper,  twenty  or  thirty  times  over, 


26  WALKING  SHADOWS 

every  blessed  text  he  could  find  about  lanterns 
and  lights,  and  it's  all  mixed  up  with  bits  from 
Herbert  Spencer  on  the  Unknowable." 

"It  was  well  known  all  over  Westport," 
said  Dawkins,  "that  old  Peter  had  a  screw 
loose  about  religion,  but  he  seemed  such  a  reli 
able  old  boy.  You  don't  think  he  could  have 
seen  anything  to  set  him  off  like,  sir?  It  seems 
funny  that  the  door  was  left  open  like  that." 

"Lord  knows  what  he  may  have  been  play 
ing  at  before  he  did  this.  We'd  better  go  up 
stairs,  and  have  a  look  at  the  light." 

The  two  men  plodded  up  the  steep  winding 
stair,  poking  into  every  corner  on  their  way 
up,  till  they  emerged  on  the  little  railed  plat 
form  under  the  great  crystal  moons  of  the  lan 
tern.  The  glare  blinded  them. 

"Turn  those  lights  off,"  said  Commander 
Pickering. 

Dawkins  ducked  into  the  tower  and  obeyed. 

Half  a  dozen  patrol  boats,  each  with  its  tiny 
black  gun,  at  bow  and  stern,  were  cruising  to 
and  fro  over  rough  seas,  that  looked  from  that 
height  very  much  like  the  wrinkles  on  poor 
old  Peter's  gray  face.  Another  sailor  hauled 
himself  to  the  platform,  breathing  hard  from 
the  ascent,  and  saluted. 


THE  LIGHT-HOUSE  27 

"A  telephone  message  for  you,  sir,"  he  said. 
"There's  been  a  lot  of  mines  discovered  off 
the  point.  We  should  have  run  straight  into 
them,  if  we  had  neglected  your  warning  and 
steered  a  straight  course  out." 

Commander  Pickering  looked  at  Dawkins 
in  silence.  Far  away  to  eastward,  the  dawn 
was  breaking,  red  as  blood,  through  a  low 
fringe  of  ragged  gray  clouds.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  the  crystal  moons  of  the  Hatchets'  Light 
were  afire  with  it,  and  breaking  it  up  into  the 
colors  of  the  rainbow  round  the  black  figures 
of  the  three  men. 

"We'll  have  to  apologize  to  Peter,"  said 
Dawkins  at  last. 

"It  was  a  very  lucky  coincidence,"  said 
Commander  Pickering;  and  he  led  the  way 
downstairs  at  a  smart  pace  to  Peter's  room 
again. 

"There's  no  doubt  that  he  shot  himself,"  he 
said.  "Look  at  all  this.  The  man  was  stark 
mad.  See  what  he  has  written  on  the  title- 
page,  under  his  own  name :  'Thou  art  Peter; 
and  upon  this  rock  I  'will  build  my  Church' " 


II 

UNCLE  HYACINTH 

ON  a  bright  morning,  early  in  the  year 
1917,  Herr  Sigismund  Krauss,  secret 
agent  for  the  German  Government, 
stopped  at  the  entrance  of  Harrods'  Stores, 
looked  at  himself  in  one  of  the  big  mirrors, 
thought  that  he  really  did  look  a  little  like 
Bismarck,  and  adjusted  his  tie.  To  relieve 
the  tension,  let  it  be  added  that  this  scene  was 
not  enacted  in  London,  but  in  the  big  branch 
of  Harrods'  that  had  recently  been  opened  in 
Buenos  Aires. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  because  it  looked  so 
very  much  like  the  London  branch  that  it  had 
rasped  the  nerves  of  Herr  Krauss.  He  was  in 
a  very  nervous  condition,  owing  to  the  state 
of  his  digestive  system,  and  he  was  easily  irri 
tated.  He  had  been  annoyed  in  the  first  place 
because  the  German  houses  in  Buenos  Aires 
were  unable  to  sell  him  several  things  which 
he  thought  necessary  for  the  voyage  he  was 

about  to  take  across  the  Atlantic.     He  had 

28 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  29 

been  almost  angry  when  the  bald-headed  Eng 
lishman  who  had  waited  on  him  in  Harrods' 
advised  him  to  buy  a  safety  waistcoat.  All 
that  he  needed  for  his  safety  was  the  fraudu 
lent  Swedish  passport,  made  out  in  the  name 
of  Erik  Neilsen,  which  he  carried  in  his  breast 
pocket. 

"I  am  an  American  citizen,"  he  said,  com 
plicating  matters  still  further.  "I  am  sailing 
to  Barcelona  on  an  Argentine  ship,  vich  the 
Germans  are  pledged  nod  to  sink." 

"This  is  the  exact  model  of  the  waistcoat 
that  saved  the  life  of  Lord  Winchelsea,"  said 
the  Englishman.  "I  advise  you  to  procure 
one.  You  never  know  what  those  damned 
Germans  will  do." 

Here  was  a  chance  of  raising  a  little  feeling 
against  the  United  States,  and  Herr  Krauss 
never  lost  an  opportunity.  He  pretended  to 
be  even  more  angry  than  he  really  was. 

"That  is  a  most  ungalled-for  suggestion  to  a 
citizen  of  a  neutral  guntry,"  he  snorted.  "I 
shall  report  id  to  the  authorities." 

These  mixed  emotions  had  disarranged  his 
tie.  But  he  had  obtained  all  that  he  wanted, 
and  when  he  emerged  into  the  street  the  magic 
of  the  blue  sky  and  the  brilliance  of  the  sun- 


30  WALKING  SHADOWS 

light  on  the  stream  of  motor  cars  and  gay 
dresses  cheered  him  greatly.  After  all,  it  was 
not  at  all  like  London;  and  there  were  still 
places  where  a  good  German  might  speak  his 
mind,  if  he  did  not  insist  too  much  on  his 
allegiance. 

He  was  in  a  great  hurry,  for  his  ship,  the 
Hispaniola,  sailed  that  afternoon.  When  he 
reached  his  hotel  he  had  only  just  time  enough 
to  pack  his  hand  luggage  and  drive  down  to 
the  docks.  His  trunk  had  gone  down  in  ad 
vance.  It  was  very  important,  indeed,  that 
he  should  not  miss  the  boat.  There  was 
trouble  pending,  which  might  lead  to  his  ar 
rest  if  he  remained  in  Argentina  for  another 
week;  and  there  was  urgent — and  profitable — 
work  for  him  to  do  in  Europe. 

In  his  cab  on  the  way  to  the  docks  he  exam 
ined  the  three  letters  which  had  been  waiting 
for  him  at  the  hotel.  Two  of  them  were  re 
quests  for  a  settlement  of  certain  bills.  "They 
can  wait,"  he  murmured  to  himself  euphemis 
tically,  "till  after  the  war." 

The  third  letter  ran  thus: 

Dear  Erik:  Bon  voyage!  Most  amusing  news.  Op 
eration  successful.  Uncle  Hyacinth's  appetite  splendid. 
Six  meals  daily.  Yours  affectionately,  Bolo. 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  31 

This  was  the  most  annoying  thing  of  all. 
Herr  Krauss  knew  nothing  about  any  opera 
tion.  He  knew  even  less  about  Uncle  Hya 
cinth;  and  in  order  to  interpret  the  message 
he  would  require  the  code — Number  Six,  as 
indicated  by  the  last  word  but  two,  and  the 
code  was  locked  up  in  his  big  brass-bound 
steamer  trunk.  It  was  not  likely  to  be  any 
thing  that  required  immediate  attention.  He 
had  received  a  number  of  code  messages  lately 
which  did  not  even  call  for  a  reply.  It  was 
merely  irritating. 

When  he  reached  the  docks  he  found  that 
his  trunk  was  buried  under  a  mountain  of 
other  baggage  on  the  lower  deck  of  the  His- 
paniola,  and  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  get 
at  it  before  they  sailed.  He  had  just  ten  min 
utes  to  dash  ashore  and  ring  up  the  German 
legation  on  the  telephone.  He  wasted  nearly 
all  of  them  in  getting  the  right  change  to  slip 
into  the  machine.  A  most  exasperating  con 
versation  followed. 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  the  German  minister." 

"He  is  away  for  the  week-end.  This  is  his 
secretary.'7 

"This  is  Sigismund  Krauss  speaking." 

"Oh,  yes." 


32  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"I  have  received  a  message  about  Uncle 
Hyacinth." 

"I  can't  hear." 

"Uncle  Hyacinth's  appetite!"  This  was 
bellowed. 

"Oh,  yes."  The  voice  was  very  cautious 
and  polite. 

"I  want  to  know  if  it's  important." 

"Whose  appetite  did  you  say?" 

"Uncle  Hyacinth's!"  This  was  like  Hin- 
denburg  himself  thundering. 

There  seemed  to  be  some  sort  of  consulta 
tion  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire.  Then  the 
reply  came  very  clearly: 

"I'm  sorry,  but  we  cannot  talk  over  the  tele 
phone.  I  can't  hear  anything  you  say. 
Please  put  your  question  in  writing." 

It  was  an  obvious  lie  for  any  one  to  say  he 
could  not  hear  the  tremendous  voice  in  which 
Herr  Krauss  had  made  his  touching  inquiry; 
but  he  fully  understood  the  need  for  caution. 
He  had  tapped  too  many  wires  himself  to 
blame  his  colleagues  for  timidity.  He  had 
only  a  minute  to  burst  out  of  the  telephone 
booth  and  regain  the  deck,  before  the  gang 
planks  were  hoisted  in  and  the  ship  began  to 
slide  away  to  the  open  sea. 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  33 

He  was  more  than  annoyed,  he  was  dis 
gusted,  to  find  that  half  the  people  on  board 
were  talking  English.  Two  or  three  of  them, 
including  the  captain,  were  actually  British 
subjects;  while  the  purser,  a  few  of  the  stew 
ards  and  several  passengers  were  citizens  of 
the  United  States. 

It  was  late  that  evening  and  the  shore  lights 
had  all  died  away  over  the  pitch-black  water 
when  the  brass-bound  trunk  belonging  to  Mr. 
Neilsen,  as  we  must  call  him  henceforward, 
was  carried  into  his  stateroom  by  two  grunting 
stewards.  The  mysterious  letter  could  be  of 
no  use  to  the  Fatherland  now,  and  he  certainly 
did  not  expect  it  to  be  important  from  a  selfish 
point  of  view.  Also,  he  was  hungry,  and  he 
did  not  hurry  over  his  dinner  in  order  to  de 
code  it.  It  was  only  his  curiosity  that  im 
pelled  him  to  do  so  before  he  turned  in;  but  a 
kind  of  petrefaction  overspread  his  well-fed 
countenance  as  the  significance  of  the  message 
dawned  upon  him.  He  sat  on  a  suitcase  in  his 
somewhat  cramped  quarters  and  translated  it 
methodically,  looking  up  the  meaning  of  each 
word  in  the  code,  like  a  very  unpleasant 
schoolboy  with  a  dictionary.  He  was  nothing 
if  not  efficient,  and  he  wrote  it  all  down  in 


34  WALKING  SHADOWS 

pencil  on  a  sheet  of  note-paper,  in  two  parallel 
columns,  thus: 

Bon  voyage U-boats 

Most    Instructed 

Amusing Sink 

News Argentine 

Operation    Ships 

Successful    Destruction 

Uncle  Hyacinth's Hispaniola 

Appetite Essential 

Splendid    Cancel 

Six   Code  number 

Meals    Passage 

Daily   Immediately 

Perhaps  to  make  sure  that  his  eyes  did  not 
deceive  him  Mr.  Neilsen  wrote  the  translation 
out  again  mechanically,  in  its  proper  form,  at 
the  foot  of  the  page,  thus : 

U-boats  instructed  sink  Argentine  ships.  Destruction 
Hispaniola  essential.  Cancel  passage  immediately. 

It  seemed  to  have  exactly  the  same  meaning. 
It  was  ghastly.  He  knew  exactly  what  that 
word  "destruction"  meant  as  applied  to  the 
Hispaniola.  He  had  been  present  at  a  secret 
meeting  only  a  month  ago,  at  which  it  was 
definitely  decided  that  it  would  be  inadvisable 
to  carry  out  a  certain  amiable  plan  of  sinking 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  35 

the  Argentine  ships  without  leaving  any  traces, 
while  an  appearance  of  friendship  was  main 
tained  with  the  Argentine  Government.  Evi 
dently  this  policy  had  suddenly  been  reversed. 
There  would  be  a  concentration  of  half  a 
dozen  U-boats,  a  swarm  of  them  probably, 
for  the  express  purpose  of  sinking  the  His- 
paniola,  just  as  they  had  concentrated  on  the 
Lusitania;  but  in  this  case  there  would  be  no 
survivors  at  all.  The  ship's  boats  would  be 
destroyed  by  gunfire,  with  all  their  occupants, 
because  it  was  necessary  that  there  should  be 
no  evidence  of  what  had  happened ;  and  neces 
sity  knows  no  law.  There  was  no  chance  of 
their  failing.  They  would  not  dare  to  fail ; 
and  he  himself  had  organized  the  system  by 
which  the  most  precise  information  with  re 
gard  to  sailings  was  conveyed  to  the  German 
Admiralty. 

He  crushed  all  the  papers  into  his  breast 
pocket  and  hurried  up  on  deck.  It  was  hor 
ribly  dark.  At  the  smoking-room  door  he 
met  one  of  the  ship's  officers. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Mr.  Neilsen,  "is  there  any 
possibility  of  our — of  our  meeting  a  ship — er 
— bound  the  other  way?" 

The    officer    stared    at    him,    wondering 


36  WALKING  SHADOWS 

whether  Mr.  Neilsen  was  drunk  or  seasick. 

"Certainly,"  he  said;  "but  it's  not  likely  for 
some  days  on  this  course." 

"Will  it  be  possible  for  me  to  be  taken  off 
and  return?  I  have  found  among  my  mail  an 
important  letter.  A  friend  is  very  ill." 

"I'm  afraid  it's  quite  impossible.  In  the 
first  place  we  are  not  likely  to  meet  anything 
but  cattle  ships  till  we  are  in  European 
waters." 

"Oh,  but  in  this  case,  even  a  cattle  ship — " 
said  Mr.  Neilsen  with  great  feeling. 

"It  is  impossible,  I  am  afraid,  in  any  case. 
It  is  absolutely  against  the  rules;  and  in  war 
time,  of  course,  they  are  more  strict  than  ever." 

"Even  if  I  were  to  pay?" 

"Time  is  not  for  sale  in  this  war,  unfortu 
nately.  It's  verboten"  said  the  officer  with  a 
smile;  and  that  of  course  Mr.  Neilsen  under 
stood  at  once. 

He  was  naturally  an  excitable  man,  and  his 
inability  to  obtain  his  wish  made  him  feel  that 
he  would  give  all  his  worldly  possessions  at 
this  moment  for  a  berth  in  the  dirtiest  cattle 
boat  that  ever  tramped  the  seas,  if  only  it  were 
going  in  the  opposite  direction. 

He  returned  to  his  stateroom  almost  panic- 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  37 

stricken.  He  sat  down  on  the  suitcase  and 
held  his  head  between  his  hands  while  he  tried 
to  think.  He  was  a  slippery  creature  and  his 
fellow  countrymen  had  often  admired  his 
"slimness"  in  former  crises ;  but  it  was  difficult 
to  discover  a  cranny  big  enough  for  a  cock 
roach  here,  unless  he  made  a  clean  breast  of  it 
to  the  captain.  In  that  case  he  would  be  in 
criminated  with  all  the  belligerents  and  most 
of  the  neutrals.  There  would  be  no  place  in 
the  world  where  he  could  hide  his  head,  ex 
cept  perhaps  Mexico.  He  would  probably  be 
penniless  as  well. 

At  this  point  in  his  cogitations  there  was  a 
knock  on  the  door,  which  startled  him  like  a 
pistol  shot.  He  opened  it  a  cautious  inch  or 
two — for  his  papers  were  all  over  his  berth — 
and  a  steward  handed  him  a  telegram. 

"This  was  waiting  for  you  at  the  purser's 
office,  sir,"  he  said.  "The  mail  has  only  just 
been  sorted.  If  you  wish  to  reply  by  wire 
less  you  can  do  so  up  to  midnight."  The  man 
was  smiling  as  if  he  knew  the  contents.  There 
had  been  some  jesting,  in  fact,  about  this  tele 
gram  at  the  office. 

A  gleam  of  hope  shot  through  Mr.  Neilsen's 
chaotic  brain  as  he  opened  the  envelope  with 


38  WALKING  SHADOWS 

trembling  fingers.  Perhaps  it  contained  reas 
suring  news.  His  face  fell.  It  simply  re 
peated  the  former  sickening  message  about 
Uncle  Hyacinth.  But  the  steward  had  re 
minded  him  of  one  last  resource. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  trying  hard  to  be  calm;  "I 
shall  want  to  send  a  reply." 

"Here  is  a  form,  sir.  You'll  find  the  regu 
lations  printed  on  the  back." 

Mr.  Neilsen  closed  the  door  and  sank,  gasp 
ing,  on  to  the  suitcase  to  examine  the  form. 
The  regulations  stated  that  no  message  would 
be  accepted  in  code.  This  did  not  worry  him 
at  first,  as  he  thought  he  could  concoct  an  ap 
parently  straightforward  and  harmless  mes 
sage  with  the  elaborate  vocabulary  of  his 
Number  Six.  But  the  code  had  not  been  in 
tended  for  agonizing  moments  like  these.  It 
abounded  in  commercial  phrases,  medical 
terms  and  domestic  greetings;  and  though 
there  were  a  number  of  alternative  words  and 
synonyms  it  was  not  so  easy  as  he  had  expected 
to  make  a  coherent  message  which  should  be 
apparently  a  reply  to  the  telegram  he  had  re 
ceived.  After  half  an  hour  of  seeking  for  the 
mot  juste  which  would  have  melted  the  heart 
of  a  Flaubert,  he  arrived  at  the  purser's  office 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  39 

with  wild  eyes  and  handed  in  the  yellow  form. 

"I  wish  to  send  this  by  Marconi  wireless," 
he  said. 

The  purser  tapped  each  word  with  his  pen 
cil  as  he  read  it  over: 

Splendid.  Most — amusing.  Use — heaps — butter.  Con 
gratulate — Uncle  Hyacinth.  Love.  Erik. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  purser, 
"but  we  can  only  accept  messages  en  clair." 

"It  is  as  clear  as  I  can  make  it,"  said  Mr. 
Neilsen;  and  he  was  telling  the  truth.  "It  is 
the  answer  to  the  telegram  which  was  handed 
to  me  on  board." 

"It  looks  a  little  unusual,  sir." 

"It  is  gonnected  with  an  unusual  operation," 
said  Mr.  Neilsen,  who  was  getting  thoroughly 
rattled,  "and  goncerns  the  diet  of  the  batient." 

"I  see,"  said  the  purser.  "Well,  I'll  take 
your  word  for  it,  sir,  and  tell  the  operator." 

At  this  moment  the  steward,  who  had  en 
tered  Mr.  Neilsen's  stateroom  during  his  ab 
sence,  was  laying  out  that  gentleman's  pyjamas 
on  his  berth.  He  shook  them  out  in  order  to 
fold  them  properly;  and  in  doing  so  he  shook 
a  round  ball  of  paper  on  to  the  floor.  He  un 
rolled  it  and  discovered  two  parallel  columns 


40  WALKING  SHADOWS 

of  words,  which  gave  a  new  meaning  to  the 
telegram.  He  put  it  in  his  pocket,  looked 
carefully  round  the  room,  took  all  the  torn 
scraps  out  of  the  wastepaper  basket  and  put 
those  also  in  his  pocket.  Then  he  went  out, 
just  in  time  to  avoid  meeting  Mr.  Neilsen,  and 
trotted  by  another  companionway  to  the 
purser's  office. 

Ten  minutes  later  a  consultation  was  held  in 
the  captain's  cabin.  The  two  messages  and 
the  scraps  of  paper  were  spread  out  on  the 
table,  while  the  purser  took  another  large, 
clean  sheet,  on  which  he  jotted  down  as  many 
of  the  words  as  could  be  deciphered,  together 
with  their  equivalents,  in  two  parallel  col 
umns,  almost  as  neat  as  those  of  Mr.  Neilsen 
himself.  When  he  had  finished  there  was  a 
very  nice  little  vocabulary — though  it  was 
only  a  small  part  of  the  code;  and  in  a  very 
short  time  they  were  staring  in  amazement  at 
the  full  translation  of  the  messages  concerning 
Uncle  Hyacinth.  Then  they  proceeded  to 
business. 

Captain  Abbey  was  an  Englishman  who  had 
commanded  many  ships  in  many  parts  of  the 
world.  He  had  worked  his  way  up  from  be 
fore  the  mast,  and  in  moments  of  emotion  he 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  41 

was  still  inclined  to  be  reckless  with  his 
aitches.  He  was  very  large  and  red-faced, 
and  looked  as  the  elder  Weller  might  have 
looked  if  he  had  taken  to  the  sea  in  youth. 
Captain  Abbey  was  not  a  vindictive  man ;  but 
the  Hispaniola  was  the  finest  ship  he  had  yet 
commanded,  and  the  opportunity  had  come  to 
him  as  a  result  of  the  war  and  the  general 
dearth  of  neutral  skippers  who  were  ready  to 
take  risks.  He  was  not  anxious  to  lose  the 
ship  on  his  first  voyage,  and  his  face  grew  red 
der  and  redder  as  he  sat  reading  the  messages 
on  the  table. 

"What's  the  translation  of  'onions'?"  he 
said. 

"I  think  it  means  'abroad/  according  to  this 
column,"  s^id  the  purser. 

"Put  it  down.  Now,  what  does  'tonsils' 
mean?" 

"Tonsils?  Tonsils?  Oh,  yes;  here  we  are. 
It  means  'von  Tirpitz.' ' 

"The  devil  it  does,"  said  Captain  Abbey. 

"And  what  does  'meat'  mean?" 

"'German;  I  think." 

"And  'colossal'?" 

"I  had  it  here  a  moment  ago.  Ah,  'colos 
sal'  means  twenty." 


42  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"Just  like  'em,"  said  the  captain.  "Here's 
appendix!  I  suppose  they  find  these  medical 
terms  useful.  How  do  you  translate  that?" 

"Appendix?  H'm;  let  me  see.  Appendix 
means  false." 

"  'E  deserves  to  'ave  it  cut  out  with  a  blunt 
saw,  blast  'is  eyes.  And  what  d'you  make  of 
this  message  'e's  just  'anded  in?" 

"As  far  as  I  can  make  it  out  this  is  the  trans 
lation:  'Cancel  instructions  sink;  message 
too  late;  aboard  Hispaniola.' " 

"And  the  lily-livered  little  skunk  wanted  to 
get  orf  and  save  his  own  'ide!  But  'e  was 
quite  ready  to  let  the  rest  of  us  go  to  'ell  I 
There  are  twenty  women  and  four  children 
aboard,  too;  and  we're  guaranteed  by  the  Ger 
man  Government!  It  would  serve  'im  right 
if  we  made  'im  walk  the  plank,  like  they  used 
to  do.  But  drowning's  too  good  for  'im.  If 
we  put  'im  in  irons  'e'll  know  we're  on  the 
watch,  and  that'll  ease  'is  mind  too  much.  I 
know  what  to  do  with  'im  when  we  get  'im  on 
the  other  side.  But  in  the  meantime  we'll 
give  that  little  bit  of  sauerkraut  a  taste  of  'is 
own  medicine.  'Ere's  the  idea:  We've  got 
enough  of  the  code  to  work  it.  We'll  give 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  43 

him  another  radiogram  to  take  to  bed  with  'im 
to-night.  'Ow's  this?  Steward,  get  me  one 
of  them  yellow  telegraph  forms  and  one  of  the 
proper  envelopes.  We'll  fix  it  all  up  in  good 
shape.  And,  look  'ere,  steward;  not  a  word 
about  this  to  any  one,  you  understand?'' 

The  steward  departed  on  his  errand.  Cap 
tain  Abbey  took  another  sheet  of  paper  and 
laboriously,  with  tongue  outthrust,  constructed 
a  sentence,  consulting  the  purser's  two  columns 
from  time  to  time,  and  occasionally  chuckling 
as  he  altered  or  added  a  word. 

The  purser  slapped  his  thighs  with  delight 
as  he  followed  the  work  over  the  captain's 
shoulder;  and  when  the  form  arrived  he  wrote 
out  the  captain's  composition  in  a  very  large, 
clear  hand,  with  the  fervor  of  a  man  announc 
ing  good  news.  Then  he  licked  the  flap  of  the 
yellow  envelope,  closed  it,  addressed  it  and 
handed  it  to  the  steward. 

"Give  this  wireless  message  to  Mr.  Neilsen 
in  half  an  hour.  Tell  him  it  has  just  arrived. 
If  there  is  any  reply  to-night  he  must  send  it 
before  twelve  o'clock." 

"I  'ope  that  will  make  'im  sit  up  and  think," 
said  Captain  Abbey.  "I'll  consider  what 


44  WALKING  SHADOWS 

steps  I'd  better  take  to  save  the  ship ;  and  then 
I  shall  probably  'ave  a  wireless  or  two  of  my 
own  to  send  elsewhere." 

Mr.  Neilsen  was  greatly  excited  when  the 
steward  knocked  at  his  door  and  handed  him 
the  second  wireless  message.  He  opened  it 
with  trembling  fingers  and  read : 

Still  more  successful.  Uncle  Hyacinth's  tonsils  re 
moved.  Appetite  now  colossal.  Bless  him.  Taking 
large  quantities  frozen  meat. 

He  could  hardly  wait  to  translate  it.  He 
sat  down  on  his  suitcase  again,  and  spelled  it 
out  with  the  help  of  his  Number  Six,  word  by 
word,  refusing  to  believe  his  eyes,  refusing 
even  to  read  it  as  a  consecutive  sentence  till  the 
bottom  of  the  two  parallel  columns  had  been 
reached,  thus: 

Still Impossible 

More Total 

Successful    Destruction 

Uncle  Hyacinth's Hispaniola 

Tonsils    Von  Tirpitz 

Removed  Advises 

Appetite Essential 

Now    Squadron 

Colossal Twenty 

Bless  him    .  .  .Submarines 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  45 

Taking Waiting 

Large    Appropriate 

Quantities Death 

Frozen     Good 

Meat German 

Best Enviable 

Greetings Position 

This  was  hideous.  He  remembered  all  that 
he  had  done  all  over  the  world  in  the  interests 
of  the  Fatherland.  He  remembered  the  skil 
ful  way  in  which  long  before  the  war  he  had 
stirred  up  feeling  in  America  against  Japan, 
and  in  Japan  against  both  America  and  Eng 
land.  He  remembered  the  way  in  which  he 
had  manipulated  the  peace  societies  in  the  in 
terest  of  militarism.  He  had  spent  several 
years  in  London  before  the  war,  and  he  be 
lieved  he  had  helped  to  make  the  very  name 
of  England  a  reproach  in  literary  coteries;  so 
that  current  English  literature,  unless  it  went 
far  beyond  honest  criticism  of  English  life, 
unless  indeed  it  manifested  a  complete  con 
tempt  for  that  pharisaical  country  and  painted 
it  as  rotten  from  head  to  foot,  lost  caste  among 
the  self-enthroned  British  intellectuals. 

It  was  very  easy  to  do  this,  because,  though 
English  editors  paid  considerable  attention  to 


46  WALKING  SHADOWS 

their  leading  articles,  some  of  them  did  not 
care  very  much  what  kind  of  stuff  was  printed 
in  their  literary  columns ;  and  they  would  al 
low  the  best  of  our  literature,  old  and  new, 
and  the  most  representative  part  of  it,  to  be 
misrepresented  by  an  anonymous  Sinn  Feiner 
in  half  a  dozen  journals  simultaneously.  The 
editors  were  patriotic  enough,  but  they  didn't 
think  current  literature  of  much  importance. 
He  had  been  able,  therefore,  to  quote  extracts 
from  important  London  journals  in  the  for 
eign  press. 

He  had  been  helped,  too,  by  lecturers  who 
drew  pensions  from  the  British  Government 
for  their  literary  merits,  and  told  American 
audiences  that  the  one  flag  they  loathed  was 
the  flag  of  the  land  that  pensioned  them.  He 
had  reprinted  these  utterances,  together  with 
the  innocent  bleatings  of  the  intellectuals,  and 
scattered  them  all  over  the  world  in  pamphlet 
form.  He  had  marked  passages  in  their 
books  and  sent  them  to  friends.  Thousands  of 
columns  were  devoted  to  them  in  the  news 
papers  of  foreign  countries,  while  the  English 
press  occasionally  referred  to  them  in  brief 
paragraphs,  announcing  to  a  drugged  public 
at  home  that  the  vagaries  of  these  writers  were 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  47 

of  no  importance.  He  had  carried  out  the 
program  of  his  country  to  the  letter,  and  poi 
soned  the  intellectual  wellsprings. 

No  grain  of  poison  was  too  small.  He  had 
even  written  letters  to  the  newspapers  in  Scot 
land,  which  had  stimulated  the  belief  of  cer 
tain  zealous  Scots  that  whenever  the  name  of 
England  was  used  it  was  intended  as  a  delib 
erate  onslaught  upon  the  Union.  There  was 
hardly  any  destructive  force  or  thought  or 
feeling,  good,  bad  or  merely  trivial,  which 
he  had  not  turned  to  the  advantage  of  Ger 
many  and  the  disadvantage  of  other  nations. 
Then  when  the  war  broke  out  he  had  re 
doubled  his  activities.  He  was  amazed  when 
he  thought  of  the  successful  lies  he  had  fos 
tered  all  over  the  world.  He  had  plotted 
with  Hindus  on  the  coast  of  California,  and 
provided  them  with  the  literature  of  freedom 
in  the  interests  of  autocracy.  He  worked  for 
dissension  abroad  and  union  in  Germany. 
He  was  hand-in-glove  with  the  I.  W.  W.  He 
was  idealist,  socialist,  pacifist,  anarchist,  fu 
turist,  suffragist,  nationalist,  internationalist 
and  always  publicist,  all  at  once,  and  for  one 
cause  only — the  cause  of  Germany. 

And  this  was  the  gratitude  of  the — of  the — • 


48  WALKING  SHADOWS 

swine!  Well,  he  would  teach  them  a  lesson. 
God  in  heaven !  There  was  only  one  thing  he 
could  do  to  save  his  skin.  He  would  send 
them  an  ultimatum!  It  was  their  last  chance. 
He  shivered  to  think  that  it  might  be  his  own! 
But  it  was  not  so  easy  as  he  thought  it  would 
be  to  burn  all  his  boats.  It  cost  him  two  days 
and  two  nights  of  tortuous  thinking  before  he 
could  bring  himself  to  the  point.  At  eleven 
o'clock  on  the  third  night  the  purser  brought 
the  captain  a  new  message,  which  Mr.  Neilsen 
had  just  handed  in  to  be  despatched  by  wire 
less.  It  ran  as  follows : 

Continue  treatment.  Vastly  amusing.  Uncle  Hya 
cinth's  magnificent  constitution  stand  anything.  Apply 
mustard.  Try  red  pepper. 

The  group  that  met  to  consider  this  new 
development  included  three  passengers,  whom 
the  captain  had  invited  to  share  what  he  called 
the  fun.  They  were  a  Miss  Depew,  an  Amer 
ican  girl  who  was  going  to  Europe  to  do  Red 
Cross  work;  and  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Penny- 
feather,  English  residents  of  Buenos  Aires, 
with  whom  she  was  traveling.  The  message, 
as  they  interpreted  it,  ran  as  follows: 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  49 

Unless  instructions  to  sink  Hispaniola  countermanded, 
shall  inform  captain.  No  alternative.  Most  important 
papers  my  possession. 

"Good!"  said  Captain  Abbey.  " 'E's  be 
ginning  to  show  symptoms  of  blackmail.  I'd 
send  this  message  on,  only  we're  likely  to  make 
a  bigger  bag  by  keeping  quiet.  We'll  let  'im 
'ave  the  reply  to-morrow  morning.  What 
shall  we  do  to  'im  next?" 

"Shoot  him,"  said  Miss  Depew  with  com 
plete  calm. 

"Oh,  I  want  to  'ave  a  little  fun  with  'im 
first,"  said  Captain  Abbey.  "I'm  afraid  you 
'aven't  got  much  sense  of  humor,  Miss 
Depew." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  she  said.  She  was  of 
the  purest  Gibson  type,  and  never  flickered  an 
innocent  eyelash  or  twisted  a  corner  of  her  red 
Cupid's  bow  of  a  mouth  as  she  drawled:  "I 
think  it  would  be  very  humorous  indeed  to 
shoot  him,  now  that  we  know  he  is  a  Ger 


man." 


"Well,  after  'is  trying  to  leave  us  without 
warning  'e  deserves  to  be  skinned  and  stuffed. 
But  we're  likely  to  make  much  more  of  it  if 
we  keep  'im  alive  for  our  entertainment.  Be- 


50  WALKING  SHADOWS 

sides,  Vs  going  to  be  useful  on  the  other  side. 
Now,  what  do  you  think  of  this  for  a  scheme?" 
The  heads  of  the  conspirators  drew  closer 
round  the  table;  and  Mr.  Neilsen,  wandering 
on  deck  like  a  lost  spirit,  pondered  on  the 
tragic  ironies  of  life.  The  thoughtless  laugh 
ter  that  rippled  up  to  him  from  the  captain's 
cabin  filled  him  with  no  compassion  toward 
any  one  but  himself.  It  was  merely  one  more 
proof  that  only  the  Germans  took  life  seri 
ously.  All  the  same,  if  he  could  possibly  help 
it,  he  was  not  going  to  let  them  take  his  own 
life. 

II 

There  was  no  radiogram  for  Mr.  Neilsen  on 
the  following  day;  and  he  was  perplexed  by  a 
new  problem  as  he  walked  feverishly  up  and 
down  the  promenade  deck. 

Even  if  he  received  an  assurance  that  the 
Hispaniola  would  be  spared,  how  could  he 
know  that  he  was  being  told  the  truth?  Ne 
cessity,  as  he  knew  quite  well,  was  the  mother 
of  murder.  It  was  very  necessary,  indeed, 
that  his  mouth  should  be  sealed.  Besides,  he 
had  more  than  a  suspicion  that  his  use  was  ful 
filled  in  the  eyes  of  the  German  Government, 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  51 

and  that  they  would  not  be  sorry  if  they  could 
conveniently  get  rid  of  him.  He  possessed  a 
lot  of  perilous  knowledge;  and  he  wished 
heartily  that  he  didn't.  He  was  tasting,  in 
fact,  the  inevitable  hell  of  the  criminal,  which 
is  not  that  other  people  distrust  him,  but  that 
he  can  trust  nobody  else. 

He  leaned  over  the  side  of  the  ship  and 
watched  the  white  foam  veining  the  black 
water. 

"Curious,  isn't  it?"  said  dapper  little  Mr. 
Pennyfeather,  who  stood  near  him.  "Ex 
actly  like  liquid  marble.  Makes  you  think  of 
that  philosophic  Johnny — What's-his-name — 
fellow  that  said  'everything  flows,'  don't  you 
know.  And  it  does,  too,  by  Jove!  Every 
thing!  Including  one's  income!  It's  curi 
ous,  Mr.  Neilsen,  how  quickly  we've  changed 
all  our  ideas  about  the  value  of  human  life, 
isn't  it?  By  Jove,  that's  flowing  too!  The 
other  morning  I  caught  myself  saying  that 
there  was  no  news  in  the  paper;  and  then  I 
realized  that  I'd  overlooked  the  sudden  death 
of  about  ten  thousand  men  on  the  Western 
Front.  Well,  we've  all  got  to  die  some  day, 
and  perhaps  it's  best  to  do  it  before  we  deterio 
rate  too  far.  Don't  you  think  so?" 


52  WALKING  SHADOWS 

Mr.  Neilsen  grunted  morosely.  He  hated 
to  be  pestered  by  these  gadflies  of  the  steamer. 
He  particularly  disliked  this  little  English 
man  with  the  neat  gray  beard,  not  only  because 
he  was  the  head  of  an  obnoxious  bank  in 
Buenos  Aires,  but  because  he  would  persist  in 
talking  to  him  with  a  ghoulish  geniality  about 
submarine  operations  and  the  subject  of  death. 
Also,  he  was  one  of  those  hopeless  people  who 
had  been  led  by  the  wholesale  slaughter  of  the 
war  to  thoughts  of  the  possibility  of  a  future 
life.  Apparently  Mr.  Pennyfeathtr  had  no 
philosophy,  and  his  spiritual  being  was  grop 
ing  for  light  through  those  materialistic  fogs 
which  brood  over  the  borderlands  of  science. 
His  wife  was  even  more  irritating;  for  she, 
too,  was  groping,  chiefly  because  of  the  fash 
ion;  and  they  both  insisted  on  talking  to  Mr. 
Neilsen  about  it.  They  had  quite  spoiled  his 
breakfast  this  morning.  He  did  not  resent  it 
on  spiritual  grounds,  for  he  had  none ;  but  he 
did  resent  it  because  it  reminded  him  of  his 
mortality,  and  also  because  a  professional 
quack  does  not  like  to  be  bothered  by  amateurs. 

Mrs.  Pennyfeather  approached  him  now  on 
the  other  side.  She  was  a  faded  lady  with 
hair  dyed  yellow,  and  tortoise-shell  spectacles. 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  53 

"Have  you  ever  had  your  halo  read,  Mr. 
Neilsen?"  she  asked  with  a  sickly  smile. 

"No.  I  don't  believe  in  id,"  he  said 
gruffly. 

"But  surely  you  believe  in  the  spectrum," 
she  continued  with  a  ghastly  inconsequence 
that  almost  curdled  the  logic  in  his  German 
brain. 

"Certainly,"  he  replied,  trying  hard  to  be 
polite. 

"And  therefore  in  specters,"  she  cooed  in 
gratiatingly,  as  if  she  were  talking  to  a  very 
small  child. 

"Nod  at  all!  Nod  at  all!"  he  exploded 
somewhat  violently,  while  Mr.  Pennyfeather, 
on  the  other  side,  came  to  his  rescue,  sagely 
repudiating  the  methods  of  his  wife. 

"No,  no,  my  dear!  I  don't  think  your  train 
of  thought  is  quite  correct  there.  My  wife 
and  I  are  very  much  interested  in  recent  occult 
experiments,  Mr.  Neilsen.  We've  been  won 
dering  whether  you  wouldn't  join  us  one  night, 
round  the  ouija  board." 

"Id  is  all  nonsense  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Neil- 
sen,  gesticulating  with  both  arms. 

"Quite  so;  very  natural.  But  we  got  some 
very  curious  results  last  night,"  continued  Mr. 


54  WALKING  SHADOWS 

Pennyfeather.  "Most  extraordinary.  The 
purser  was  with  us,  and  he  thought  it  would 
interest  you.  I  wish  you  would  join  us." 

"I  should  regard  id  as  gomplete  waste  of 
time,"  said  Mr.  Neilsen. 

"Surely,  nothing  can  be  waste  of  time  that 
increases  our  knowledge  of  the  bourne  from 
which  no  traveler  returns,"  replied  the  lyric 
lips  of  Mrs.  Pennyfeather. 

"To  me  the  methods  are  ridiculous,"  said 
Mr.  Neilsen.  "All  this  furniture  removal! 
Ach!" 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Pennyfeather,  "you  should 
read  WhatVhis-name.  You  know  the  chap, 
Susan.  Fellow  that  said  it's  like  a  ship 
wrecked  man  waving  a  shirt  on  a  stick  to  at 
tract  attention.  Of  course  it's  ridiculous  I 
But  what  else  can  you  do  if  you  haven't  any 
other  way  of  signaling?  Why,  man  alive! 
You'd  use  your  trousers,  wouldn't  you,  if  you 
hadn't  anything  else?  And  the  alternative — 
drowning  —  remember  —  drowning  beneath 
what  Thingumbob  calls  'the  unplumbed  salt, 
estranging  sea.'  " 

"Eggscuse  me,"  said  Mr.  Neilsen;  "I  have 
some  important  business  with  the  captain.  I 
must  go." 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  55 

Mr.  Neilsen  had  been  trying  hard  to  make 
up  his  mind,  despite  these  irrelevant  interrup 
tions.  He  had  received  no  assurance  by  wire 
less,  and  he  had  convinced  himself  that  even 
if  he  did  receive  one  it  would  be  wiser  to  in 
form  the  captain.  But  there  were  many  dif 
ficulties  in  the  way.  He  had  taken  great  care 
never  to  do  anything  that  might  lead  to  the 
death  penalty — that  is  to  say,  among  nations 
less  civilized  than  his  own.  But  there  was 
that  affair  of  the  code.  It  might  make  things 
very  unpleasant.  A  dozen  other  suspicious 
circumstances  would  have  to  be  explained 
away.  A  dozen  times  he  had  hesitated,  as  he 
did  this  morning.  He  met  the  captain  at  the 
foot  of  the  bridge. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Neilsen,"  said  Captain  Abbey 
with  great  cordiality,  "you're  the  very  man  I 
want  to  see.  We're  'aving  a  little  concert  to 
night  in  the  first-class  dining  room  on  behalf 
of  the  wives  and  children  of  the  British  mine 
sweepers  and  the  auxiliary  patrols.  You  see, 
though  this  is  a  neutral  ship,  we  depend  upon 
them  more  or  less  for  our  safety.  I  thought  it 
would  be  pleasant  if  you — as  a  neutral — would 
say  just  a  few  words.  I  understand  that 
they've  rescued  a  good  many  Swedish  crews 


56  WALKING  SHADOWS 

from  torpedoed  ships ;  and  whatever  view  we 
may  take  of  the  war  we  'ave  to  admit  that  these 
little  boats  are  doing  the  work  of  civilization." 

Mr.  Neilsen  thought  he  saw  an  opportunity 
of  ingratiating  himself,  and  he  seized  it.  He 
could  broach  the  other  matter  later  on.  "I 
vill  do  my  best,  captain." 

"  'Ere  is  a  London  newspaper  that  will  tell 
you  all  about  their  work." 

Mr.  Neilsen  retired  to  his  stateroom  and 
studied  the  newspaper  fervently. 

The  captain  took  the  chair  that  evening,  and 
he  did  it  very  well.  He  introduced  Mr.  Neil- 
sen  in  a  few  appropriate  words;  and  Mr. 
Neilsen  spoke  for  nearly  five  minutes,  in  Eng 
lish,  with  impassioned  eloquence  and  a  rap 
idly  deteriorating  accent. 

"Dese  liddle  batrol  boads,"  he  said  in  his 
peroration,  "how  touching  to  the  heart  is  der 
vork!  Some  of  us  forget  ven  ve  are  safe  on 
land  how  much  ve  owe  to  them.  But  no  mat 
ter  vot  your  nationality,  ven  you  are  on  the 
high  seas,  surrounded  with  darkness  and  dan 
gers,  not  knowing  ven  you  shall  be  torpedoed, 
vot  a  grade  affection  you  feel  then  to  dese  lid- 
die  batrol  boads!  As  a  citizen  of  Sweden  I 
speak  vot  I  know.  The  ships  of  my  guntry 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  57 

have  suffered  much  in  dis  war.  The  sailors 
of  my  guntry  have  been  thrown  into  the  water 
by  thousands  through  der  submarines.  But 
dese  liddle  batrol  boads,  they  save  them  from 
drowning.  They  give  them  blankets  and  hot 
goffee.  They  restore  them  to  their  veeping 
mothers." 

Mr.  Neilsen  closed  amid  tumultuous  ap 
plause,  and  when  the  collection  was  taken  up 
by  Miss  Depew  his  contribution  was  the  larg 
est  of  the  evening. 

The  rest  of  the  entertainment  consisted 
chiefly  of  music  and  recitation.  Mr.  Penny- 
feather  contributed  a  song,  composed  by 
himself.  Typewritten  copies  of  the  words 
were  issued  to  the  audience;  and  a  very  fat 
and  solemn  Spaniard  accompanied  him  with 
thunderous  chords  on  the  piano.  Every  one 
joined  in  the  chorus;  but  Mr.  Neilsen  did 
not  like  the  song  at  all.  It  was  concerned  with 
Mr.  Pennyf earner's  usual  gruesome  subject; 
and  he  rolled  it  out  in  a  surprisingly  rich  bary 
tone  with  the  gusto  of  a  schoolboy: 

//  they  sink  us  we  shall  be 
All  the  nearer  to  the  sea! 
That's  no  hardship  to  deplore! 
We've  all  been  in  the  sea  before. 


58  WALKING  SHADOWS 

Chorus: 
And  then  we'll  go  a-rambling, 

A-rambling,  a-rambling, 
With  all  the  little  lobsters 

From  Frisco  to  the  Nore. 

If  we  swim  it's  one  more  tale, 
Round  the  hearth  and  over  the  ale; 
When  your  lass  is  on  your  knee, 
And  love  comes  laughing  from  the  sea. 

Chorus: 
And  then  we'll  go  a-rambling, 

A-rambling,  a-ramblingf 
A-rambling  through  the  roses 

That  ramble  round  the  door. 

If  we  drown,  our  bones  and  blood 
Mingle  with  the  eternal  flood. 
That's  no  hardship  to  deplore! 
We've  all  been  in  the  sea  before. 

Chorus: 
And  then  we'll  go  a-rambling, 

A-rambling,  a-rambling, 
The  road  that  Jonah  rambled 

And  twenty  thousand  more. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Pennyfeather,  holding 
out  his  hands  like  the  conductor  of  a  revival 
meeting,  "all  the  ladies,  very  softly,  please." 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  59 

The  solemn  Spaniard  rolled  his  great  black 
eyes  at  the  audience,  and  repeated  the  refrain 
pianissimo,  while  the  silvery  voices  caroled: 

With  all  the  little  lobsters 
From  Frisco  to  the  Nore. 

"Now,  all  the  gentlemen,  please,"  said  Mr. 
Pennyfeather.  The  Spaniard's  eyes  flashed. 
He  rolled  thunder  from  the  piano,  and  Mr. 
Neilsen  found  himself  bellowing  with  the  rest 
of  the  audience: 

The  road  that  Jonah  rambled 
From  Hull  to  Singapore, 

And  twenty  thousand,  thirty  thousand f 
Forty  thousand,  fifty  thousand, 
Sixty  thousand,  seventy  thousand, 
Eighty  thousand  more! 

It  was  an  elaborate  conclusion,  accom 
panied  by  elephantine  stampings  of  Captain 
Abbey's  feet;  but  Mr.  Neilsen  retired  to  his 
.room  in  a  state  of  great  depression.  The  fri 
volity  of  these  people,  in  the  face  of  his  coun 
trymen,  appalled  him. 

On  the  next  morning  he  decided  to  act,  and 
sent  a  message  to  the  captain  asking  for  an 
interview.  The  captain  responded  at  once, 


60  WALKING  SHADOWS 

and  received  him  with  great  cordiality.  But 
the  innocence  of  his  countenance  almost  para 
lyzed  Mr.  Neilsen's  intellect  at  the  outset,  and 
it  was  very  difficult  to  approach  the  subject 

"Do  you  see  this,  Mr.  Neilsen?"  said  the 
captain,  holding  up  a  large  champagne  bottle. 
"Do  you  know  what  I've  got  in  this?" 

"Champagne,"  said  Mr.  Neilsen  with  the 
weary  pathos  of  a  logician  among  idiots. 

"No,  sir!     Guess  again." 

"Pilsener!" 

"No,  sir  I  It's  plain  sea  water.  I've  just 
filled  it.  I'm  taking  it  'ome  to  my  wife.  She 
takes  it  for  the  good  of  'er  stummick,  a  small 
wineglass  at  a  time.  She  always  likes  me  to 
fill  it  for  her  in  mid-Atlantic.  She's  come  to 
depend  on  it  now,  and  I  wouldn't  dare  to  go 
'ome  without  it.  I  forgot  to  fill  it  once  till 
we  were  off  the  coast  of  Spain.  And,  would 
you  believe  it,  Mr.  Neilsen,  that  woman  knewl 
The  moment  she  tasted  it  she  knew  it  wasn't 
the  right  vintage.  Well,  sir,  we  shall  soon 
be  in  the  war  zone  now.  But  you  are  not 
looking  very  well,  Mr.  Neilsen.  I  'ope 
you've  got  a  comfortable  room." 

"I  have  reason  to  believe,  captain,  that 
there  will  be  an  attempt  made  by  the  subma- 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  61 

rines  to  sink  the  Hispaniola,"  said  Mr.  Neil- 
sen  abruptly. 

"Nonsense,  my  dear  sir!  This  is  a  neutral 
ship  and  we're  sailing  to  a  neutral  country, 
under  explicit  guarantees  from  the  German 
Government.  They  won't  sink  the  Hispan- 
iola  for  the  pleasure  of  killing  her  superan 
nuated  English  captain/1 

"I  have  reason  to  believe  they  intended  to — 
er — change  their  bolicy.  I  was  not  sure  of  id 
till  I  opened  my  mail  on  the  boad ;  but — er — 
I  have  a  friend  in  Buenos  Aires  who  vas  in 
glose  touch — er — business  gonnections — with 
members  of  the  German  legation;  he — er — 
advised  me,  too  late,  I  had  better  gancel  my 
bassage.  I  fear  there  is  no  doubt  they  vill 
change  their  bolicy.7' 

"•But  they  couldn't.  There  ain't  any  policy ! 
The  Argentine  Republic  is  a  neutral  country. 
You  can't  make  me  believe  they'd  do  a  thing 
like  that.  It  wouldn't  be  honest,  Mr.  Neilsen. 
Of  course,  it's  war-time;  but  the  German  Gov 
ernment  wants  to  be  honorable,  don't  it — like 
any  other  government?" 

"I  don'd  understand  the  reasons;  but  I  fear 
there  is  no  doubt  aboud  the  facts,"  said  Mr. 
Neilsen. 


62  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"Have  you  got  the  letter?" 

"No;  I  thought  as  you  do,  ad  first,  and  I 
tore  id  up." 

"Was  that  why  you  wanted  to  get  off  and 
go  back?"  the  captain  inquired  mercilessly. 

"I  gonfess  I  vas  a  liddle  alarmed;  but  I 
thought  perhaps  I  vas  unduly  alarmed  at  the 
time.  I  gouldn't  trust  my  own  judgment,  and 
I  had  no  ride  to  make  other  bassengcrs  nerv 


ous." 


"That  was  very  thoughtful  of  you.  I  trust 
you  will  continue  to  keep  this  matter  to  your 
self,  for  I  assure  you — though  I  consider  the 
German  Government  'opelessly  wrong  in  this 
war — they  wouldn't  do  a  dirty  thing  like  that. 
They're  very  anxious  to  be  on  good  terms  with 
the  South  American  republics,  and  they'd  ruin 
themselves  for  ever." 

"But  my  information  is  they  vill  sink  the 
ships  vithoud  leaving  any  draces." 

"What  do  you  mean?  Pretend  to  be 
friendly,  and  then —  Come,  now!  That's  an 
awful  suggestion  to  make!" 

At  these  words  Mr.  Neilsen  had  a  vivid 
mental  picture  of  his  conversation  with  the 
bald-headed  Englishman  in  Harrods'. 

"Do   you   mean,"   the   captain    continued, 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  63 

waxing  eloquent,  "do  you  mean  they'd  sink 
the  ships  and  massacre  every  blessed  soul 
aboard,  regardless  of  their  nationality?  Of 
course  I'm  an  Englishman,  and  I  don't  love 
'em,  but  that  ain't  even  murder.  That's  plain 
beastliness.  It  couldn't  be  done  by  anything 
that  walks  on  two  legs.  I  tell  you  what,  Mr. 
Neilsen,  you're  a  bit  overwrought  and  nerv 
ous.  You  want  a  little  recreation.  You'd 
better  join  the  party  to-night  in  my  cabin. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pennyfeather  are  coming,  and 
a  very  nice  American  girl — Miss  Depew. 
We're  going  to  get  a  wireless  message  or  two 
from  the  next  world.  Ever  played  with  the 
ouija  board?  Nor  had  I  till  this  voyage;  but 
I  must  say  it's  interesting.  You  ought  to  see 
it,  as  a  scientific  man.  I  understand  you're 
interested  in  science,  and  you  know  there's  no 
end  of  scientists — big  men  too — taking  this 
thing  up.  You'd  better  come.  Half  past 
eight.  Right  you  are!" 

And  so  Mr.  Neilsen  was  ushered  out  into 
despair  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  booked  for 
an  unpleasant  evening.  He  had  accepted  the 
captain's  invitation  as  a  matter  of  policy;  for 
he  thojght  he  might  be  able  to  talk  further 
with  him.  and  it  was  not  always  easy  to  secure 


64  WALKING  SHADOWS 

an  opportunity.  In  fact,  when  he  thought 
things  over  he  was  inclined  to  feel  more  ami 
ably  toward  the  Pennyfeathers,  who  had  put 
the  idea  of  psychical  research  into  the  cap 
tain's  head. 

Promptly  at  half  past  eight,  therefore,  he 
joined  the  little  party  in  the  captain's  cabin. 
Miss  Depew  looked  more  Gibsonish  than 
ever,  and  she  smiled  at  him  bewitchingly; 
with  a  smile  as  hard  and  brilliant  as  dia 
monds.  Mrs.  Pennyfeather  looked  like  a 
large  artificial  chrysanthemum;  and  she  ex 
amined  his  black  tie  and  dinner  jacket  with 
the  wickedly  observant  eye  of  a  cockatoo. 
Three  times  in  the  first  five  minutes  she  made 
his  hand  travel  over  his  shirt  front  to  find  out 
which  stud  had  broken  loose.  They  had 
driven  him  nearly  mad  in  his  stateroom  that 
evening,  and  he  had  turned  his  trunk  inside 
out  in  the  process  of  dressing,  to  find  some 
socks. 

Moreover,  he  had  left  his  door  unlocked. 
He  was  growing  reckless.  Perhaps  the  high 
sentiments  of  every  one  on  board  had  made 
him  trustful.  If  he  had  seen  the  purser  ex 
ploring  the  room  and  poking  under  his  berth 
he  might  have  felt  uneasy,  for  that  was  what 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  65 

the  purser  was  doing  at  this  moment.  Mr. 
Neilsen  might  have  been  even  more  mystified 
if  he  had  seen  the  strange  objects  which  the 
purser  had  laid,  for  the  moment,  on  his  pil 
low.  One  of  them  looked  singularly  like  a 
rocket,  of  the  kind  which  ships  use  for  signal 
ing  purposes.  But  Mr.  Neilsen  could  not  see ; 
and  so  he  was  only  worried  by  the  people 
round  him. 

Captain  Abbey  seemed  to  have  washed  his 
face  in  the  sunset.  He  was  larger  and  more 
like  a  marine  Weller  than  ever  in  his  best 
blue  and  gilt.  And  Mr.  Pennyfeather  was 
just  dapper  little  Mr.  Pennyfeather,  with  his 
beard  freshly  brushed. 

"You've  never  been  in  London,  Miss  De- 
pew?"  said  Captain  Abbey  reproachfully, 
while  the  Pennyfeathers  prepared  the  ouija 
board.  "Ah,  but  you  ought  to  see  the  Thames 
at  Westminster  Bridge  I  No  doubt  the  Ama 
zon  and  the  Mississippi,  considered  as  rivers, 
are  all  right  in  their  way.  They're  ten  times 
bigger  than  our  smoky  old  river  at  'ome.  But 
the  Thames  is  more  than  a  river,  Miss  Depew. 
The  Thames  is  liquid  'istory!" 

As  soon  as  the  ouija  board  was  ready  they 
began  their  experiment.  Mr.  Neilsen 


66  WALKING  SHADOWS 

thought  he  had  never  known  anything  more 
sickeningly  illustrative  of  the  inferiority  of 
all  intellects  to  the  German.  He  tried  the 
ouija  board  with  Mrs.  Pennyfeather,  and  the 
accursed  thing  scrawled  one  insane  syllable. 

It  looked  like  "cows,"  but  Miss  Depew  de 
cided  that  it  was  "crows."  Then  Mrs.  Penny- 
feather  tried  it  with  Captain  Abbey;  and  they 
got  nothing  at  all,  except  an  occasional  giggle 
from  the  lady  to  the  effect  that  she  didn't  think 
the  captain  could  be  making  his  mind  a  blank. 
Then  Mr.  Pennyfeather  tried  it  with  Miss 
Depew — with  no  result  but  the  obvious  de 
light  of  that  sprightly  middle-aged  gentleman 
at  touching  her  polished  finger  tips,  and  the 
long  uneven  line  that  was  driven  across  the 
paper  by  the  ardor  of  his  pressure.  Finally 
Miss  Depew — subduing  the  glint  of  her  smile 
slightly,  a  change  as  from  diamonds  to  rubies, 
but  hard  and  clear-cut  as  ever — declared,  on 
the  strength  of  Mr.  Neilsen's  first  attempt, 
that  he  seemed  to  be  the  most  sensitive  of  the 
party,  and  she  would  like  to  try  it  with  him. 

Strangely  enough  Mr.  Neilsen  felt  a  little 
mollified,  even  a  little  flattered,  by  the  sugges 
tion.  He  was  quite  ready  to  touch  the  finger 
tips  of  Miss  Depew,  and  try  again.  She  had 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  67 

a  small  hand.  He  could  not  help  remember 
ing  the  legend  that  after  the  Creator  had  made 
the  rosy  ringers  of  the  first  woman  the  devil 
had  added  those  tiny,  gemlike  nails;  but  he 
thought  the  devil  had  done  his  work,  in  this 
case,  like  an  expert  jeweler.  Mr.  Neilsen 
was  always  ready  to  bow  before  efficiency, 
even  if  its  weapons  were  no  more  imposing 
than  a  manicure  set. 

The  ouija  board  was  quiet  for  a  moment  or 
two.  Then  the  pencil  began  to  move  across 
the  paper.  Mr.  Neilsen  did  not  understand 
why.  Miss  Depew  certainly  looked  quite 
blank;  and  the  movement  seemed  to  be  inde 
pendent  of  their  own  consciousness.  It  was 
making  marks  on  the  paper,  and  that  was  all 
he  expected  it  to  do. 

At  last  Miss  Depew  withdrew  her  hand  and 
exclaimed:  "It's  too  exhausting.  Read  it, 
somebody!" 

Mr.  Pennyfeather  picked  it  up,  and 
laughed. 

"Looks  to  me  as  if  the  spirits  are  a  bit 
erratic  to-night.  But  the  writing's  clear 
enough,  in  a  scrawly  kind  of  way.  I'm 
afraid  it's  utter  nonsense." 

He  began  to  read  it  aloud: 


68  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"Exquisitely  amusing  1  Uncle  Hyacinth's 
little  appendix — " 

At  this  moment  he  was  interrupted.  Mr. 
Neilsen  had  risen  to  his  feet  as  if  he  were  be 
ing  hauled  up  by  an  invisible  rope  attached 
to  his  neck.  His  movement  was  so  startling 
that  Mrs.  Pennyfeather  emitted  a  faint, 
mouselike  screech.  They  all  stared  at  him, 
waiting  to  see  what  he  would  do  next. 

But  Mr.  Neilsen  recovered  himself  with 
great  presence  of  mind.  He  drew  a  hand 
kerchief  from  his  trousers  pocket,  as  if  he  had 
risen  only  for  that  purpose.  Then  he  sat 
down  again. 

"Bardon  me,"  he  said;  "I  thought  I  vas 
aboud  to  sneeze.  Vat  is  the  rest  of  id?'7 

He  sat  very  still  now,  but  his  mouth  opened 
and  shut  dumbly,  like  the  mouth  of  a  fish, 
while  Mr.  Pennyfeather  read  the  message 
through  to  the  end: 

"Exquisitely  amusing!  Uncle  Hyacinth's 
little  appendix  cut  out.  Throat  enlarged. 
Consuming  immense  quantities  pork  sausages; 
also  onions  wholesale.  Best  greetings.  Fond 
love.  Kisses." 

"I'm  afraid  they're  playing  tricks  on  us  to- 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  69 

night,"  said  Mr.  Pennyfeather.  /'They  do 
sometimes,  you  know.  Or  it  may  be  frag 
ments  of  two  or  three  messages  which  have  got 
mixed." 

"Hold  on,  though!"  said  the  captain. 
"Didn't  you  send  a  wireless  the  other  day,  Mr. 
Neilsen,  to  somebody  by  the  name  of  Hya 
cinth?" 

"Well— ha  I  ha!  ha!  It  was  aboud  some 
body  by  that  name.  I  suppose  I  must  have 
moved  my  hand  ungonsciously.  IVe  been 
thinking  aboud  him  a  great  deal.  He's  ill, 
you  see." 

"How  very  interesting"  cooed  Mrs.  Penny- 
feather,  drawing  her  chair  closer.  "Have 
you  really  an  uncle  named  Hyacinth?  Such 
a  pretty  name  for  an  elderly  gentleman,  isn't 
it?  Doesn't  the  rest  of  the  message  mean  any 
thing  to  you,  then,  Mr.  Neilsen?" 

He  stared  at  her,  and  then  he  stared  at  the 
message,  licking  his  lips.  Then  he  stared  at 
Captain  Abbey  and  Miss  Depew.  He  could 
read  nothing  in  their  faces  but  the  most  child 
like  amusement.  The  thing  that  chilled  his 
heart  was  the  phrase  about  onions.  He  could 
not  remember  the  meaning,  but  it  looked  like 
one  of  those  innocent  commercial  phrases  that 


70  WALKING  SHADOWS 

had  oeen  embodied  in  the  code.  Was  it  pos 
sible  that  in  his  agitation  he  had  unconsciously 
written  this  thing  down? 

He  crumpled  up  the  paper  and  thrust  it 
into  his  side  pocket.  Then  he  sniggered 
mirthlessly.  Greatly  to  his  relief  the  captain 
began  talking  to  Miss  Depew,  as  if  nothing 
had  happened,  about  the  Tower  of  London; 
and  he  was  able  to  slip  away  before  they 
brought  the  subject  down  to  modern  times. 

Ill 

Mr.  Neilson  may  have  been  a  very  skeptical 
person.  Perhaps  his  intellect  was  really 
paralyzed  by  panic,  for  the  first  thing  he  did 
on  reaching  his  stateroom  that  night  was  to 
get  out  the  code  and  translate  the  message  of 
the  ouija  board.  It  was  impossible  that  it 
should  mean  anything;  but  he  was  impelled  by 
something  stronger  than  his  reason.  He 
broke  into  a  cold  sweat  when  he  discovered 
that  it  had  as  definite  a  meaning  as  any  of  the 
preceding  messages;  and  though  it  was  not 
the  kind  of  thing  that  would  have  been  sent  by 
wireless  he  recognized  that  it  was  probably 
far  nearer  the  truth  than  any  of  them.  This 
is  how  he  translated  it: 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  71 

"Imperative  sink  Hispaniola  after  treach 
erous  threat.  Wiser  sacrifice  life.  Other 
wise  death  penalty  inevitable.  Flight  abroad 
futile.  Enviable  position.  Fine  opportu 
nity  hero." 

He  could  not  understand  how  this  thing  had 
happened.  Was  it  possible  that  in  great  crises 
an  agitated  mind  two  thousand  miles  away 
might  create  a  corresponding  disturbance  in 
another  mind  which  was  concentrated  on  the 
same  problem?  Had  he  evolved  these 
phrases  of  the  code  out  of  some  subconscious 
memory  and  formed  them  into  an  intelligible 
sentence?  Trickery  was  the  only  other  al 
ternative,  and  that  was  out  of  the  question. 
All  these  people  were  of  inferior  intellect. 
Besides,  they  were  in  the  same  peril  them 
selves;  and  obviously  ignorant  of  it.  His 
code  had  never  been  out  of  his  possession. 
Yet  he  felt  as  if  he  had  been  under  the  micro 
scope.  What  did  it  mean?  He  felt  as  if  he 
were  going  mad. 

He  crept  into  his  berth  in  a  dazed  and 
blundering  way,  like  a  fly  that  has  just  crawled 
out  of  a  honey  pot.  After  an  hour  of  fever 
ish  tossing  from  side  to  side  he  sank  into  a 


72  WALKING  SHADOWS 

doze,  only  to  dream  of  the  bald-headed  man 
in  Harrods7  who  wanted  to  sell  him  a  safety 
waistcoat,  the  exact  model  of  the  one  that 
saved  Lord  Winchelsea.  The  most  hideous 
series  of  nightmares  followed.  He  dreamed 
that  the  sides  of  the  ship  were  transparent,  and 
that  he  saw  the  periscopes  of  innumerable  sub 
marines  foaming  alongside  through  the  black 
water.  He  could  not  cry  out,  though  he  was 
the  only  soul  aboard  that  saw  them,  for  his 
mouth  seemed  to  be  fastened  with  official  seal 
ing  wax — black  sealing  wax — stamped  with 
the  German  eagle.  Then  to  his  horror  he 
saw  the  quick  phosphorescent  lines  of  a  dozen 
torpedoes  darting  toward  the  Hispanlola  from 
all  points  of  the  compass.  A  moment  later 
there  was  an  explosion  that  made  him  leap, 
gasping  and  fighting  for  breath,  out  of  his 
berth.  But  this  was  not  a  dream.  It  was 
the  most  awful  explosion  he  had  ever  heard, 
and  his  room  stank  of  sulphur.  He  seized  the 
cork  jacket  that  hung  on  his  wall,  pulled  his 
door  open  and  rushed  out,  trying  to  fasten  it 
round  him  as  he  went. 

When  the  steward  arrived,  with  the  purser, 
they  had  the  stateroom  to  themselves;  and 
after  the  former  had  thrown  the  remains  of 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  73 

the  rocket  through  the  porthole,  together  with 
the  ingenious  contrivance  that  had  prevented 
it  from  doing  any  real  damage  under  Mr. 
Neilsen's  berth,  the  purser  helped  him  with 
his  own  hands  to  carry  the  brass-bound  trunk 
down  to  his  office. 

"We'll  tell  him  that  his  room  was  on  fire 
and  we  had  to  throw  the  contents  overboard. 
We'll  give  him  another  room  and  a  suit  of  old 
clothes  for  to-morrow.  Then  we  can  examine 
his  possessions  at  leisure.  We've  got  the  code 
now;  but  there  may  be  lots  of  other  things  in 
his  pockets.  That's  right.  I  hope  he  doesn't 
jump  overboard  in  his  fright.  It's  lucky  that 
we  warned  these  other  staterooms.  It  made  a 
hellish  row.  You'd  better  go  and  look  for 
him  as  soon  as  we  get  this  thing  out  of  the 
way." 

But  it  was  easier  to  look  for  Mr.  Neilsen 
than  to  find  him.  The  steward  ransacked  the 
ship  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  and  he 
began  to  fear  that  the  worst  had  happened. 
He  was  peering  round  anxiously  on  the  boat 
deck  when  he  heard  an  explosive  cough  some 
where  over  his  head.  He  looked  up  into  the 
rigging  as  if  he  expected  to  find  Mr.  Neilsen 
in  the  crosstrees;  but  nobody  was  to  be  seen, 


74  WALKING  SHADOWS 

except  the  watch  in  the  crow's  nest,  dark 
against  the  stars. 

"Mr.  Neilsen!"  he  called.     "Mr.  Neilsen!" 

"Are  you  galling  me?"  a  hoarse  voice  re 
plied.  It  seemed  to  come  out  of  the  air,  above 
and  behind  the  steward.  He  turned  with  a 
start,  and  a  moment  later  he  beheld  the  head 
of  Mr.  Neilsen  bristling  above  the  thwarts  of 
Number  Six  boat.  He  had  been  sitting  in  the 
bottom  of  the  boat  to  shelter  himself  from  the 
wind,  and  some  symbolistic  Puck  had  made 
him  fasten  his  cork  jacket  round  his  pyjamas 
very  firmly,  but  upside  down,  so  that  he  cer 
tainly  would  have  been  drowned  if  he  had 
been  thrown  into  the  water. 

"It's  all  right,  Mr.  Neilsen,"  said  the  stew 
ard.  "The  danger  is  over." 

"Are  ve  torpedoed?"  The  round-eyed 
visage  with  the  bristling  hair  was  looking 
more  and  more  like  Bismarck  after  a  debauch 
of  blood  and  iron,  and  it  did  not  seem  inclined 
to  budge. 

"No,  sir!  The  shock  damaged  your  room  a 
little,  but  we  must  have  left  the  enemy  behind. 
You  had  a  lucky  escape,  sir." 

"My  Gott!  I  should  think  so,  indeed! 
The  ship  is  not  damaged  in  any  vay?" 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  75 

"No,  sir.  There  was  a  blaze  in  your  room, 
and  I'm  afraid  they  had  to  throw  all  your 
things  overboard.  But  the  purser  says  he  can 
rig  you  out  in  the  morning;  and  we  have  an 
other  room  ready  for  you." 

"Then  I  vill  gum  down,"  said  Mr.  Neilsen. 
And  he  did  so.  His  bare  feet  paddled  after 
the  steward  on  the  cold  wet  deck.  At  the 
companionway  they  met  the  shadowy  figure  of 
the  captain. 

"I'm  afraid  you've  'ad  an  unpleasant  upset, 
Mr.  Neilsen,"  he  said. 

"Onbleasant!  It  vos  derrible!  Derrible! 
But  you  see,  captain,  I  vas  correct.  And  this 
is  only  the  beginning,  aggording  to  my  infor 
mation.  I  hope  now  you  vill  take  every  bre- 


caution." 


"They  must  have  mistaken  us  for  a  British 
ship,  Mr.  Neilsen,  I'm  afraid.  I'm  having 
the  ship  lighted  up  so  that  they  can't  mistake 
us  again.  You  see?  IVe  got  a  searchlight 
playing  on  the  Argentine  flag  aloft;  and  we've 
got  the  name  of  the  ship  in  illuminated  letters 
three  feet  high,  all  along  the  hull.  They 
could  read  it  ten  miles  away.  Come  and 
look!" 

Mr.  Neilsen  looked  with  deepening  horror. 


76  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"But  dis  is  madness  I"  he  gurgled.  "The 
Hispaniola  is  marked,  I  tell  you,  marked,  for 
gomplete  destruction  I" 

The  captain  shook  his  head  with  a  smile  of 
skepticism  that  withered  Mr.  Neilsen's  last 
hope. 

"Very  veil,  then  I  should  brefer  an  inside 
cabin  this  time." 

"Yes.  You  don't  get  so  much  fresh  air,  of 
course;  but  I  think  it's  better  on  the  'ole.  If 
we're  torpedoed  we  shall  all  go  down  together. 
But  you're  safer  from  gunfire  in  an  inside 


room." 


The  unhappy  figure  in  pyjamas  followed 
the  steward  without  another  word.  The  cap 
tain  watched  him  with  a  curious  expression 
on  his  broad  red  face.  He  was  not  an  un 
kindly  man;  and  if  this  German  in  the  cork 
jacket  had  not  been  so  ready  to  let  everybody 
else  aboard  drown  he  might  have  felt  the 
sympathy  for  him  that  most  people  feel  toward 
the  fat  cowardice  of  Falstaff.  But  he  thought 
of  the  women  and  children,  and  his  heart  hard 
ened. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Neilsen  had  gone  below,  the 
lights  were  turned  off,  and  the  ship  went  on 
her  way  like  a  shadow.  The  captain  pro- 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  77 

ceeded  to  send  out  some  wireless  messages  of 
his  own.  In  less  than  an  hour  he  received  an 
answer,  and  almost  immediately  the  ship's 
course  was  changed. 

It  was  a  strange  accident  that  nobody  on 
board  seemed  to  have  any  clothes  that  would 
fit  Mr.  Neilsen  on  the  following  day.  He  ap 
peared  at  lunch  in  a  very  old  suit,  which  the 
dapper  little  Mr.  Pennyfeather  had  worn  out 
in  the  bank.  Mr.  Neilsen  was  now  a  perfect 
illustration  of  the  schooldays  of  Prince  Blood 
and  Iron,  at  some  period  when  that  awful  ef 
figy  had  outgrown  his  father's  pocket  and 
burst  most  of  his  buttons.  But  his  face  was  so 
haggard  and  gray  that  even  the  women  pitied 
him.  At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the 
captain  asked  him  to  come  up  to  the  bridge, 
and  began  to  put  him  out  of  his  misery. 

"Mr.  Neilsen,''  he  said,  "I'm  afraid  you've 
had  a  very  anxious  voyage;  and,  though  it's 
very  unusual,  I  think  in  the  circumstances  it's 
only  fair  to  put  you  on  another  ship  if  you 
prefer  it.  You'll  'ave  your  chance  this  eve 
ning.  Do  you  see  those  little  smudges  of 
smoke  out  yonder?  Those  are  some  British 
patrol  boats;  and  if  you  wish  I'm  sure  I  can 
get  them  to  take  you  off  and  land  you  in 


78  WALKING  SHADOWS 

Plymouth.  There's  a  statue  of  Sir  Francis 
Drake  on  Plymouth  'Oe.  You  ought  to  see 
it.  What  d'you  think?" 

Mr.  Neilsen  stared  at  him.  Two  big  tears 
of  gratitude  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 

"I  shall  be  most  grateful,"  he  murmured. 

"They're  wonderful  little  beggars,  those  pa 
trol  boats,"  the  captain  continued.  "Always 
on  the  side  of  the  angels,  as  you  said  so  feel 
ingly  at  the  concert.  They're  the  police  of  the 
seas.  They  guide  and  guard  us  all,  neutrals 
as  well.  They  sweep  up  the  mines.  They 
warn  us.  They  pilot  us.  They  pick  us  up 
when  we're  drowning;  and,  as  you  said,  they 
give  us  'ot  coffee;  in  fact,  these  little  patrol 
boats  are  doing  the  work  of  civilization. 
Probably  you  don't  like  the  British  very  much 
in  Sweden,  but — " 

"I  have  no  national  brejudices,"  Mr.  Neil- 
sen  said  hastily.  "I  shall  indeed  be  most 
grateful." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  the  captain ;  "we'll 
let  'em  know." 

At  half  past  six,  two  of  the  patrol  boats  were 
alongside.  They  were  the  A uld  Robin  Gray 
and  the  Ruth;  and  they  seemed  to  be  in  high 
feather  over  some  recent  success. 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  79 

Mr.  Neilsen  was  mystified  again  when  he 
came  on  deck,  for  he  could  have  sworn  that  he 
saw  something  uncommonly  like  his  brass- 
bound  trunk  disappearing  into  the  hold  of  the 
A uld  Robin  Gray.  He  was  puzzled  also  by 
the  tail  end  of  the  lively  conversation  that  was 
taking  place  between  Miss  Depew  and  the  ab 
surdly  young  naval  officer,  with  the  lisp,  who 
was  in  command  of  the  patrols. 

"Oh,  no!  I'm  afraid  we  don't  uth  the  dun- 
geonth  in  the  Tower,"  said  that  slender  youth, 
while  Miss  Depew,  entirely  feminine  and 
smiling  like  a  morning  glory  now,  noted  all 
the  details  of  his  peaked  cap  and  the  gold 
stripes  on  his  sleeve.  "We  put  them  in  coun 
try  houtheth  and  feed  them  like  fighting 
cockth,  and  give  them  flower  gardenth  to 
walk  in." 

He  turned  to  Captain  Abbey  joyously,  and 
lisped  over  Mr.  Neilsen's  head: 

"That  wath  a  corking  metthage  of  yourth, 
captain.  I  believe  we  got  three  of  them  right 
in  the  courth  you  would  have  been  taking  to 
day.  You'll  hear  from  the  Admiralty  about 
thith,  you  know.  It  wath  magnifithentl 
Good-bye!" 

He  saluted  smartly,  and  taking  Mr.  Neil- 


8o  WALKING  SHADOWS 

sen  tightly  by  the  arm  helped  him  down  to 
the  deck  of  the  Ruth. 

"Good-by  and  good  luck!"  called  Captain 
Abbey. 

He  beamed  over  the  bulwarks  of  the  His- 
paniola  like  a- large  red  harvest  moon  through 
the  thin  mist  that  began  to  drift  between  them. 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Neilsen !"  called  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Pennyfeather,  waving  frantically. 

"Good-by,  Herr  Kraussl"  said  Miss  De- 
pew;  and  the  dainty  malice  in  her  voice 
pierced  Mr.  Neilsen  like  a  Rontgen  ray. 

But  he  recovered  quickly,  for  he  was  of  an 
elastic  disposition.  He  was  already  looking 
forward  to  the  home  comforts  which  he  knew 
would  be  supplied  by  these  idiotic  British  for 
the  duration  of  the  war. 

The  young  officer  smiled  and  saluted  Miss 
Depew  again.  He  was  a  very  ladylike  young 
man,  Mr.  Neilsen  had  thought,  and  an  obvi 
ous  example  of  the  degeneracy  of  England. 
But  Mr.  Neilsen's  plump  arm  was  still  bruised 
by  the  steely  grip  with  which  that  lean  young 
hand  had  helped  him  aboard,  so  his  conclu 
sions  were  mixed. 

The  engines  of  the  Ruth  were  thumping 
now,  and  the  Hispaniola  was  melting  away 


UNCLE  HYACINTH  81 

over  the  smooth  gray  swell.  They  watched 
her  for  a  minute  or  two,  till  she  became  spec 
tral  in  the  distance.  Then  the  youthful  rep 
resentative  of  the  British  Admiralty  turned, 
like  a  thoughtful  host,  to  his  prisoner. 

"Would  you  like  thum  tea?"  he  lisped  sym 
pathetically.  "Your  Uncle  Hyathinth  mutht 
have  given  you  an  awfully  anxiouth  time." 

Herr  Krauss  grunted  inarticulately.  He 
was  looking  like  a  very  happy  little  Bismarck. 


Ill 

THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE 

UNDOUBTEDLY  Captain  Julius  Van- 
dermeer  had  made  a  pile  of  money. 
A  Dutch  sea-captain  who  had  been  the 
chief  owner  of  his  vessel  in  the  first  two  years 
of  the  war  was  a  lucky  dog.  A  couple  of  voy 
ages  might  bring  him  more  than  he  could  hope 
to  make  in  half  a  century  of  peace.  If  he 
were  lucky  enough  to  make  forty  or  fifty  suc 
cessful  voyages  across  the  Atlantic  he  could  do 
exactly  what  Captain  Vandermeer  had  done — 
retire  from  the  sea,  invest  his  money,  look  for 
a  handsome  young  wife,  and  expect  the  re 
mainder  of  his  years  to  mellow  round  him  like 
an  orchard,  dropping  all  the  most  pleasant 
fruits  of  life  at  his  feet.  Best  of  all,  despite 
the  gray  streaks  in  his  bushy  red  beard,  he  was 
only  halfway  through  the  forties,  and  he  knew 
how  to  enjoy  himself. 

He  sat  on  the  veranda  of  his  white  bunga 
low  under  the  foothills  of  the  Sierra  Madre, 

82 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE          83 

puffing  at  his  big  meerschaum  pipe  and  ex 
plaining  these  things  to  the  lady  whom  he  had 
just  married. 

"Long  ago  I  settled  it  in  my  mind,  Mi- 
mika,"  he  said,  "if  ever  I  came  to  be  rich  there 
should  only  be  one  country  in  the  world  for 
me,  and  that  should  be  Southern  California. 
Look  at  it!" 

He  waved  the  stem  of  his  pipe  at  the  broad 
slopes  below.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  see, 
from  the  petals  that  dropped  over  the  dainty 
little  electric  car  before  the  porch,  to  the  dis 
tant  horizon,  they  were  one  gorgeous  pattern 
of  fruit  trees  in  blossom.  Masses  of  white 
and  pink  bloom  surged  like  foam  against  the 
veranda;  and  the  soft  wind  blowing  across 
that  odorous  wilderness  was  like  the  whisper 
of  wings  at  sunset  in  Eden.  Behind  the  win 
dows  of  the  dining  room  a  Chinese  manserv 
ant  glided  to  and  fro  like  a  blue  shadow. 

"Man  lives  by  contrast,  Mimika,"  Vander- 
meer  continued.  "For  a  quarter  of  a  century 
salt  water  was  all  my  world.  Now  I  have 
chosen  seas  of  peach  blossom;  and  no  danger 
of  shipwreck,  heh?  Ah,  but  it  smells  fine, 
Mimika — fine !  When  I  saw  my  fortune  com 
ing  I  asked  a  friend  in  New  York  what  was 


84  WALKING  SHADOWS 

the  place  out  of  all  the  world  where  a  man 
might  live  most  happily,  most  healthily,  in  the 
most  beautiful  climate,  to  the  age  of  ninety  or 
even  to  the  age  of  a  hundred,  enjoying  himself 
also.  'Southern  California,'  he  said.  At 
once  I  knew  that  my  friend  was  right.  I 
remembered  San  Diego  when  I  was  a  boy,  and 
the  roses  tumbling  at  my  feet  on  Christmas 
Day.  I  remembered  the  women,  Mimika; 
and  the  cantaloupe  melons,  cut  in  halves,  with 
the  ice  melting  in  their  lovely  yellow  hearts; 
and  as  soon  as  the  money  was  in  the  bank  I 
took  the  train  to  the  City  of  the  Angels.  Los 
Angeles — what  a  name,  heh?  In  three  weeks 
I  had  found  my  ranch  with  its  beautiful  bun 
galow,  waiting  like  a  palace  for  its  queen.  In 
six  months  I  had  found  the  queen,  Mimika, 
heh?" 

Mimika  rose  from  her  rocking-chair,  re 
marking,  "Now  listen,  Julius!"  This  did  not 
mean  that  she  had  anything  of  great  impor 
tance  to  say.  But  she  had  a  trick,  which  Van- 
dermeer  found  fascinating,  of  prefacing  most 
of  her  remarks  with  the  command  to  listen. 
"Listen,  Julius!  You  won't  come  down  with 
me  to  meet  Roy?"  she  said. 

"No,  Mimika,  no.    The  little  sister  will 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE          85 

have  much  to  tell  her  brother  when  she  sees 
him  for  the  first  time  after — how  long  has  he 
been  in  Europe?  Two  years?  And  she  will 
have  to  tell  him  all  about  her  honeymoon, 
heh?"  He  pinched  her  ear  playfully  as  she 
stooped  to  kiss  him. 

"I  guess  Roy  will  open  his  eyes  when  he 
sees  my  electric,"  she  said. 

She  went  down  to  the  car  in  a  skipping 
walk,  while  Captain  Vandermeer  surveyed  her 
with  the  eye  of  one  who  has  found  a  prize. 
She  was  wearing  a  Panama  hat,  a  sweater  of 
emerald  green,  and  a  very  short  yellow  skirt 
that  fluttered  round  her  yellow  silk  stockings 
like  the  petals  of  a  California  poppy.  This 
was  not  altogether  out  of  keeping  with  the 
blaze  of  the  landscape;  but  her  high-heeled 
white  shoes  prevented  her  from  walking 
gracefully;  and  this  was  really  a  pity,  for  she 
could  dance  like  a  wave  of  the  sea  if  she 
chose.  Sadder  still,  her  nose  was  as  white 
with  powder  as  if  she  had  dipped  it  into  a  bag 
of  meal  and  her  lips  looked  as  if  she  had  been 
eating  damson  jam.  This  was  more  pathetic 
than  comic,  because  in  its  natural  state  her  face 
was  pretty  as  a  wild  flower. 

Captain  Vandermeer  sat  blowing  rings  of 


86  WALKING  SHADOWS 

blue  smoke  for  a  minute  or  two  longer.  Then 
he  entered  the  bungalow  and  went  to  a  room 
at  the  back  of  the  house  which  he  had  reserved 
as  his  own  den.  It  was  a  very  bare  room  at 
present,  chiefly  furnished  by  the  bright  new 
safe  which  he  now  proceeded  to  unlock. 

He  drew  out  a  bundle  of  papers  and  exam 
ined  them  with  loving  care.  There  were 
American  railroad  bonds  to  the  value  of  fifty 
thousand  dollars;  some  Liberty  Loan  Bonds 
to  the  value  of  fifty  thousand  more;  twenty- 
five  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  Anglo-French 
bonds;  and  the  same  amount  of  the  City  of 
Paris,  risky  enough  if  the  Germans  were  go 
ing  to  break  through,  but  he  did  not  think 
they  were,  and  they  yielded  more  than  ten  per 
cent.  It  was  very  wonderful,  he  thought,  and 
he  replaced  them  like  a  man  saying  good  night 
to  his  child.  Then  he  drew  out  a  chamois- 
leather  bag  and  poured  the  glittering  contents 
into  his  left  palm.  He  was  a  very  wise  man 
in  his  generation. 

"You  never  know,"  he  muttered — "you 
never  know  what  will  happen,  in  these  days, 
to  bonds.  These  are  perhaps  the  best  invest 
ment  of  all.  These  are  the  reserves  of  my 
little  army.  It  was  a  good  idea  to  keep  them. 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE          87 

Besides,  you  can  put  them  in  your  pocket  and 
go  where  you  wish  at  a  moment's  notice.  It 
is  not  possible  always  to  get  money  at  once  for 
bonds." 

His  face  glowed  with  satisfaction  as  he  put 
the  bag  in  the  safe  and  locked  it. 

On  the  way  up  to  the  ranch  from  the  rail 
way  station  Mimika  had  been  chattering  hard 
to  her  brother;  but  he  noticed  certain  changes 
in  her  appearance  with  a  feeling  akin  to  re 
morse.  He  was  not  at  all  sure  that  she  was 
really  happy,  despite  her  apparent  enthusiasm 
over  what  she  called  the  generosity  of  Julius. 
He  wished  that  his  mother  had  delayed  things 
till  he  had  returned  from  Europe;  and  he 
could  not  help  wondering  how  far  his  failure 
to  send  home  more  than  two-thirds  of  his  own 
scanty  income  as  a  newspaper  correspondent 
had  contributed  to  the  haste  of  this  marriage. 
He  had  not  been  able  to  learn  much  about  it. 
His  mother  was  a  vague  widow,  who,  like  so 
many  widows,  regarded  marriage  with  a  kind 
of  ghostly  detachment  and  a  more  than  maid 
enly  innocence.  She  was  devoted  to  Mimika, 
but  quite  ready,  he  feared,  to  sacrifice  Mi 
mika  to  himself. 


88  WALKING  SHADOWS 

Roy  himself  had  not  had  too  easy  a  time  in 
the  last  few  years.  He  was  one  of  those  not 
uncommon  Americans  who  combine  an  ex 
traordinary  knowledge  of  the  world  with  the 
unworldliness  and  sometimes  the  gullibility 
of  an  Eastern  sage.  He  knew  more  about  the 
cathedrals  of  England  than  almost  any  Eng 
lishman;  more  about  the  chateaux  of  France 
than  most  Frenchmen.  He  could  have  dic 
tated  an  encyclopedia  of  useful  knowledge 
about  Italy  and  Egypt.  He  had  been  a  war 
correspondent  in  four  quarters  of  the  globe, 
and  he  had  acquired  a  sense  of  the  larger 
movements  in  politics  that  gave  his  opinions 
an  unusual  interest.  He  flew  over  the  big 
guns  of  international  affairs  like  a  man  in  an 
airplane;  and,  though  his  European  hearers 
might  not  always  like  his  signals,  they  usually 
felt  that  he  was  looking  beyond  their  horizon. 
But  his  ambition  was  to  do  creative  work, 
and  he  had  not  yet  succeeded.  He  marveled 
how  some  other  men,  without  expending  a 
tithe  of  his  energy,  had  produced  a  shelf  of 
books  while  he  was  still  taking  his  notes.  He 
never  seemed  to  have  the  time  for  creation, 
and  whenever  he  approached  any  original 
work  he  gravitated  toward  the  method  of 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE          89 

the  newspaper  correspondent.  He  wondered 
sometimes  whether  this  was  due  to  a  lack  of 
what  he  called  the  'creative  impulse.7  One  of 
the  things  to  which  he  had  been  looking  for 
ward  on  this  visit  was  the  opportunity  that  it 
would  give  him  of  obtaining  some  first-hand 
material  from  a  real  live  sea-captain.  Yet  he 
was  not  sure  whether  he  would  ever  be  able  to 
transmute  it  into  an  original  book. 

His  boyish  smile  was  in  somewhat  pathetic 
contrast  with  his  gold-spectacled,  and  curi 
ously  dreamy,  yet  overstrained  eyes,  which 
sometimes  gave  his  face  in  repose  the  expres 
sion  of  a  youthful  Buddha.  His  frequent 
abrupt  changes  between  a  violently  active  life 
and  an  almost  completely  sedentary  one  had 
not  been  good  for  him  physically,  and  he  was 
subject  to  fits  of  depression,  relieved  by  fits  of 
extreme  optimism. 

If  only  Mimika  were  happy  he  thought  he 
might  feel  very  optimistic  about  the  material 
that  Vandermeer  could  give  him  for  the  book 
he  was  contemplating.  Indeed  already  he 
could  not  help  sharing  a  little  in  her  enthu 
siasm  over  her  'electric.' 

"And  listen,  Roy,  weVe  got  a  marble  swim 
ming  pool  in  the  garden,  all  surrounded  with 


90  WALKING  SHADOWS 

heliotropes,"  she  concluded,  almost  breathless, 
as  they  rolled  up  the  long  aisle  of  palms  and 
pepper  trees. 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Roy.  "And  you  love 
him,  Mimika?" 

"He's  a  dear,"  said  Mimika.  "And  of 
course — "  She  was  going  to  add  that  Captain 
Vandermeer  would  do  a  great  deal  for  Roy; 
but  she  had  misgivings,  and  checked  herself. 

She  had  almost  broached  the  subject  to  her 
lord  this  morning,  and  had  checked  herself 
then,  too,  feeling  instinctively  that  Vander 
meer  had  grown  rich  too  recently  for  him  to 
help  any  one  but  himself  just  at  present. 

The  introduction  of  brother  to  husband 
went  off  very  well  indeed.  Vandermeer  was 
so  hearty,  and  held  Roy's  hand  so  affection 
ately,  that  when  they  were  getting  ready  for 
dinner  Mimika  ventured  to  approach  the  sub 
ject  again. 

"And  listen,  Julius,  you'll  be  able  to  help 
Roy  just  a  little,  too,  won't  you?"  she  said, 
putting  her  hands  up  to  her  hair  before  the 
mirror  in  her  bedroom. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mimika,  by  help?" 
Vandermeer's  voice  rolled  in  a  very  unsatis 
factory  way  from  the  adjoining  room. 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE          91 

"Oh,  of  course  there's  only  one  kind  of  help 
Roy  would  accept,"  she  replied  hastily. 
"He's  going  to  write  something  about  the  sea, 
and  he  thinks  you  might  give  him  some  hints." 

"Why,  certainly,  Mimika.  They  say 
there's  a  book  in  every  man's  life."  The 
voice  was  thoroughly  hearty  again  now.  "In 
mine  I  should  say  there  would  be  a  hundred 
books.  I  will  tell  him  some  splendid  things." 

Even  more  jovial  was  the  mood  of  Julius 
Vandermeer  that  evening  after  dinner;  and 
he  expanded  his  rosy  views  of  the  future  to 
his  brother-in-law  over  their  cigars  and  a 
steaming  rum  punch  flavored  with  lemon, 
which  was  his  own  invention  for  coping  with 
the  cold  of  a  California  night.  He  called  it 
his  "smudge  pot" 

"And  now,  Roy,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  hope 
your  own  affairs  go  well.  It  is  a  great  thing, 
the  gift  of  expression.  I  wish  I  had  it.  Ah, 
what  books  I  could  write!  The  things  I  have 
seen,  things  you  will  never  see  in  print!" 

"That's  precisely  what  I  want  to  discuss 
with  you,  Julius.  I  have  just  signed  a  con 
tract  with  the  Copley-Willard  Publishing 
Company  to  write  them  a  serial  dealing  with 
the  heroism  of  the  merchant  marine  in  war- 


92  WALKING  SHADOWS 

time.  I  don't  mind  confessing  that  I  told 
them  a  little  about  you — said  you  had  no  end 
of  crackajack  material  I  could  use.  The  re 
sult  was  the  best  contract  I've  yet  made  with 
any  publisher;  so  I  owe  that  to  you.  The 
Star  News  Company  was  very  well  satisfied 
with  my  record  as  a  correspondent;  but  I 
bungled  the  contract  with  them.  If  I  can  put 
this  thing  through  it  means  that  I  shan't  be  a 
poor  relation  much  longer.  Now  if  you  can 
only  give  me  a  good  subject  and  put  me  wise 
on  the  seamanship  and  help  me  to  get  the  local 
color,  the  rest  will  be  as  easy  as  falling  off  a 
log.  You  must  have  had  a  good  many  expe 
riences,  for  instance,  with  the  submarines, 
when  you  were  crossing  the  Atlantic  twice  a 
month." 

"Experiences — why,  yes,  many  experiences; 
but  my  good  fortune  comes — well — from  my 
good  fortune.  I  am  like  the  happy  nation.  I 
have  not  had  much  history  for  these  two  years. 
But  I  have  seen  things — oh,  yes,  I  have  seen 
things — that  were  like  what  you  call  clues — 
clues  to  many  strange  tales." 

"That's  precisely  what  I  want — a  rattling 
good  clue!" 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE          93 

"Well  now,  let  me  think.  There  were  some 
interesting  things  about  those  big  merchant 
submarines  that  the  Germans  sent  at  one  time 
across  the  Atlantic." 

"Like  the  Deutschland,  you  mean?" 

"Yes;  and  there  were  others,  never  men 
tioned  in  the  newspapers.  One  or  two  of 
them  disappeared.  Perhaps  the  British  de 
stroyed  them.  Nobody  knows.  But  it  was 
reported  that  one  of  them  was  carrying  a  mil 
lion  dollars'  worth  of  diamonds  to  the  United 
States.  Think  of  that,  Roy!  A  submarine 
full  of  diamonds!  Doesn't  that  kindle  your 
imagination?" 

"Gee!  I  should  say  it  would!"  remarked 
Mimika,  putting  down  the  highly  colored 
magazine  in  which  she  had  been  studying  the 
latest  New  York  fashions. 

"Depends  what  happened  to  it,"  said  Roy. 

"Come,  then,  I  will  tell  you  a  little  story," 
said  Vandermeer;  "but  you  must  not  mention 
my  name  about  this  one.  How  did  I  come  to 
know  it?  Ah,  perhaps  by  some  strange  acci 
dent  I  met  the  only  man  who  could  tell  the 
truth  about  it.  Perhaps  I  was  able  to  do  him 
some  small  service.  In  any  case  that  is  a  dif- 


94  WALKING  SHADOWS 

ferent  matter.  This  story  must  be  your  own, 
Roy.  It  shall  come  from  what  you  call  your 
creative  impulse." 

Mimika  plumped  down  on  a  cushion  at  her 
lord's  feet  to  listen.  He  patted  her  shoulder 
affectionately  with  his  big  left  paw,  which 
showed  up  in  a  somewhat  startling  contrast 
with  its  rough  skin  and  long  red  hairs  against 
that  smooth  whiteness.  With  his  right  hand 
he  filled  himself  the  third  glass  of  rum  punch 
that  he  had  taken  that  evening.  He  smacked 
his  lips  between  two  sips. 

"Help  yourself,  Roy,"  he  said,  "and  take 
another  cigar.  Yes,  I  will  tell  you.  Take  a 
sip,  Mimika.  That  is  good,  heh?  Now  I 
shall  need  no  more  sugar. 

"Well,  Roy,  just  imagine.  This  big  mer 
chant  submarine  leaves  Hamburg  loaded  with 
diamonds!  A  million  dollars'  worth  of  dia 
monds,  all  going  to  the  United  States,  because 
it  is  necessary  that  Germany  shall  pay  some  of 
her  bills.  There  is  a  crew  of  only  twenty  men, 
because  they  need  them  for  the  U-boats.  All 
of  these  men  are  sulky,  rebellious.  They  have 
been  forced  to  do  this  work  against  their  will. 
They  were  happy  on  their  ships  in  the  Kiel 
Canal,  except  that  there  was  always  the  chance 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE          95 

of  being  picked  for  submarine  duty.  When 
they  are  lined  up  for  that — ah,  it  is  like  wait 
ing  to  be  named  for  the  guillotine,  in  the  Reign 
of  Terror!  They  have  courage,  but  their 
hands  shake,  their  lips  are  blue  and  their 
hearts  are  sick.  It  is  the  death  sentence. 
Either  this  week,  or  the  next,  or  the  next  they 
will  be  missing.  Certainly  in  eight  weeks 
their  places  must  be  filled  again.  They  are 
just  fishes'  food.  Picture  then  the  choosing  of 
these  men.  There  is  your  first  chapter,  heh? 

"Now  for  the  second.  You  must  picture 
the  captain.  He  is  the  most  rebellious  of  all, 
for  his  life  has  been  spared  longer  than  most, 
but  his  life  on  the  submarine  is  a  living  death. 
He  is  a  good  sailor,  yes,  in  any  surface  vessel ; 
but  in  the  first  place  the  submarine  makes  him 
sick  at  the  stomach — the  smells,  the  bad  air, 
the  joggle-joggle  of  the  engine,  the  lights 
turned  down  to  save  the  batteries.  All  that 
depresses  him ;  and  he  has  always  the  thought 
that,  if  one  little  thing  goes  wrong,  he  will  die 
like  a  man  buried  alive  in  a  big  steel  coffin, 
with  nineteen  others,  all  fighting  for  breath. 
It  is  a  nightmare — the  only  nightmare  that 
ever  frightened  him." 

Captain  Vandermeer  certainly  had  a  vivid 


96  WALKING  SHADOWS 

imagination  or  else  his  own  creative  impulse, 
aided  by  frequent  draughts  of  rum  punch,  was 
carrying  him  away;  for  his  bulging  blue  eyes 
looked  as  if  they  would  burst  out  of  their 
canary-lashed  lids. 

"Moreover,  this  captain  has  been  in  a  fight 
ing  submarine  that  has  shocked  his  nerves. 
He  has  grown  used  to  scenes  of  death.  He 
has  come  to  the  surface  and  seen  many  scores 
of  men  and  women  drowning,  and  he  has 
watched  them  till  he  minds  it  no  more  than 
drowning  flies.  But  twice  he  has  found  him 
self  entangled  in  a  steel  net,  and  escaped  by 
miracle.  That  is  not  so  pleasant.  When  it 
was  decided  to  send  him  to  the  United  States 
on  a  merchant  submarine,  what  was  his  first 
thought?  What  would  be  yours,  Roy,  in  that 
position?" 

"A  bedroom  and  bath  at  the  hotel  Vander- 
bilt,"  replied  Roy  promptly. 

"You  follow  the  clue  very  well,  my  boy. 
You  have  a  clever  brother,  Mimika.  The  first 
thought  of  the  captain  is  this:  If  I  can  get 
safely  through  the  ring  of  the  enemy  the  rest 
of  the  voyage  will  not  be  so  bad.  I  shall  make 
most  of  it  on  the  surface,  and  I  shall  have  a 
breathing  spell  in  a  great  city  outside  the  war. 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE          97 

That  will  make  the  second  chapter,  heh? 
Now  what  is  his  next  thought,  Mimika?" 

"Why,  listen!  If  I  once  got  to  New  York 
I  should  want  to  stay  there,"  replied  Mimika, 
helping  herself  to  a  large  piece  of  candy. 

"Ah,  what  a  clever  sister  you  have,  my  dear 
Roy!"  said  Vandermeer,  and  both  his  red 
streaked  paws  descended  approvingly  on  Mi- 
mika's  white  shoulders.  "How  beautifully 
we  compose  this  tale  together,  heh?  But  he 
has  not  yet  reached  America,  and  he  has  a  sub 
marine  full  of  diamonds  on  his  hands;  also  a 
crew  of  twenty  men ;  also  his  orders  as  an  of 
ficer  in  the  German  Navy. 

"Well,  let  us  suppose  he  has  come  safely 
through  the  ring  of  the  enemy,  after  several 
nightmares.  He  runs  on  the  surface  almost 
always  now,  and  he  is  losing  his  bad  dreams 
for  a  time. 

"One  night  he  is  on  deck  looking  at  the  stars 
and  thinking,  who  knows  what  thoughts,  when 
the  youngest  engineer,  a  nice  little  fellow,  a 
Bavarian,  you  might  say,  with  flaxen  hair  and 
blue  eyes,  just  as  pretty  as  a  girl,  comes  up  to 
him.  His  face  is  as  white  and  smooth  as  Mi- 
mika's  shoulders — but  there  is  no  powder  on 
it,  heh?  And  his  blue  eyes  are  frightened. 


98  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"  'Captain,'  he  says,  'I  want  to  warn  you. 
There  is  a  plot  among  the  men  to  kill  you.' 

"To  kill  me!'  the  captain  says.  'Why 
should  they  wish  to  kill  me,  Otto?' 

"  They've  gone  crazy  about  the  diamonds. 
They  say  they  have  had  enough  of  this  life, 
and  they  will  never  go  back  to  Germany. 
They  mean  to  take  the  diamonds  and  sell 
them  a  few  at  a  time  in  America.  Then  they 
will  live  like  princes.  They  think  I'm  join 
ing  them.' 

"  'Is  there  nobody  but  yourself  on  my  side?' 
says  the  captain. 

'Nobody  now,'  says  Otto. 
'Very  well.     Thank  you,  my  boy.     I  will 
see  that  you  are  rewarded  for  this.     When  are 
they  going  to  do  it?' 

"  'When  we  are  submerged  and  nearing  the 
three-mile  limit.' 

"  Thank  you,  Otto,'  says  the  captain  again. 

"And  there's  your  third  chapter;  and  your 
fourth,  too,  Roy — a  dramatic  situation,  heh?" 

Roy  appeared  to  think  so,  and  on  the 
strength  of  it  he  filled  Vandermeer's  glass 
again.  He  was  anxious  to  help  the  creative 
impulse. 

"What  follows?"   continued   Vandermeer. 


«  r 
u  r 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE          99 

"In  your  tales  to-day  you  must  have  psychol 
ogy.  The  captain  is  a  clever  man.  What 
would  you  do  in  that  position,  Roy?  He  can 
not  fight  them  all.  I  will  tell  you  what  he 
does.  He  is  a  diplomatist.  He  shapes  his 
policy,  standing  there  on  the  deck  of  the  sub 
marine  all  alone,  under  the  stars. 

"The  next  evening  he  orders  rum  all  round, 
just  like  this — good  rum,  from  his  own  little 
cask,  which  he  keeps  for  the  sake  of  his  stom 
ach.  It  is  a  beautiful  evening,  a  sea  like  oil, 
and  the  setting  sun  makes  a  road  of  gold  to  the 
shores  of  America.  They  are  approaching 
the  happy  land.  The  men  themselves  are 
more  cheerful,  and  like  a  good  diplomatist  he 
seizes  the  cheerful  moment. 

"Not  only  does  he  give  them  rum  but  he 
gives  them  cigars,  also  from  his  private  box- 
expensive  cigars,  just  like  these. 

"  'I  have  a  proposition  to  make,'  he  says. 
'We  are  all  sick  of  the  war,  and  I  myself  am 
more  sick  of  it  than  anybody.' 

"They  all  stare  at  him,  wondering  what  he 
will  say  next;  and  the  little  Bavarian  opens  his 
blue  eyes  like  a  girl,  and  stares  more  than  any 
of  them.  He  thinks  perhaps  the  end  of  the 
world  will  come  now. 


ioo  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"  'There  is  nobody  here,'  says  the  captain, 
'that  wishes  to  return.  Why  should  we  re 
turn?  There  is  a  million  dollars  in  diamonds 
aboard,  enough  to  make  every  one  of  us  rich. 
We  are  going  to  the  great  republic.  Good! 
We  will  share  equally.  Every  one  of  us  shall 
have  the  same  amount.  I  myself,  though  I 
am  your  captain,  will  take  no  more  than  Otto. 
That  will  be  more  than  fifty  thousand  dollars 
for  each  one  of  us.' 

"Immediately  the  last  of  the  clouds  vanishes 
like  magic  from  the  crew.  There  is  nothing 
but  smiles  all  round  him,  smiles  and  the  smell 
of  rum  and  good  cigars,  just  like  these.  They 
are  all  good  comrades  together,  shaking  hands, 
except  the  little  Bavarian.  He  is  sitting  back 
behind  the  gyroscopic  compass  watching  the 
captain,  with  big  eyes  and  a  solemn  face  like 
the  infant  Saint  John. 

"And  why  should  they  not  all  be  satisfied — 
except  the  captain,  who  is  perhaps  only  pre 
tending  to  be  satisfied?  They  lose  only  a 
twentieth  part  of  their  money  by  including 
him.  On  the  other  hand  the  captain  loses  a 
million  dollars,  to  which  these  robbers  had  no 
more  right  than  you  or  I." 

"I  guess  the  little  Bavarian  was  sorry  he 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE        101 

spoke,"  said  Roy;  and  he  filled  Vandermeer's 
glass  again. 

"The  little  Bavarian  was  a  child,  an  inno 
cent  He  had  no  will  to  power,  heh?  He 
comes  again  to  the  captain  late  that  night,  on 
deck  under  the  stars.  His  face  looks  thin  and 
miserable.  'Captain,'  he  says,  'did  you  mean 
your  words  to  those  men?' 

"  What  else  could  I  say,  Otto,  to  save  the 
diamonds,  and  my  life,  and  perhaps  yours? 
You  do  not  understand  diplomacy,  Otto.J 

"The  face  of  the  little  Bavarian  grows 
brighter.  'Forgive  me,  my  captain  I7  he  says. 
'But  I  had  begun  to  doubt  even  you,  for 
a  moment.  I  was  thinking  of  the  Father 
land.' 

"Now,  the  captain  was  much  obliged  to 
Otto.  His  policy  was  complete  in  his  mind 
for  fooling  those  robbers,  and  he  would  have 
been  glad  to  save  this  little  Bavarian,  who  had 
warned  him.  But  he  begins  to  see  an  obsta 
cle.  He  thinks  he  will  put  this  little  fellow 
to  the  trial. 

"  'Come  now,  Otto,'  he  says,  'it  is  very  well 
to  think  of  the  Fatherland  if  you  and  I  could 
save  it.  But  do  you  think  a  few  hundred  shin 
ing  pebbles  will  make  any  odds?  These  rob- 


102  WALKING  SHADOWS 

bers  shall  not  have  them.  But  supposing  we 
share  them,  there  is  nobody  in  the  Fatherland 
that  would  be  any  poorer.  They  belong  to 
the  state,  Otto,  and  if  they  should  be  shared 
with  every  one  in  Germany  not  one  man  would 
be  a  pfennig  the  better. 

"  (But  see  what  a  difference  this  would  make 
to  you  and  me!  We  are  in  a  state  of  necessity, 
Otto ;  and  above  that  state  there  is  no  power, 
as  the  Chancellor  told  the  Reichstag.  Very 
well,  in  this  case  I  quote  Louis  the  Fourteenth  : 
"L'etat,  c'est  moi!"  and  Frederick  the  Great, 
also.  Have  I  the  might  to  do  it,  Otto?  Very 
well,  then,  according  to  the  spokesman  of  the 
Fatherland  I  have  also  the  right.' 

"  'I  do  not  understand  you,  my  captain,'  says 
this  little  blue-eyed  baby,  'but  I  know  well 
that  you  mean  to  do  right.' 

"  'You  shall  have  not  fifty  but  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars'  worth  for  your  share,  Otto, 
because  you  have  been  faithful,'  says  the  cap 
tain;  'but  you  must  not  think  too  many  beau 
tiful  thoughts  till  we  are  safe  on  shore.  I  have 
arranged  everything  in  my  mind.  Go  down 
and  sleep.' 

"  'For  God's  sake,  captain,'  cries  this  funny 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE         103 

little  fellow,  dropping  on  his  knees,  'tell  me 
what  you  mean  to  do!'  And  the  tears  begin 
to  roll  down  his  face. 

"  'It  is  not  safe  to  trust  you  yet,  Otto.  You 
might  talk  in  your  sleep,'  says  the  captain. 
'Do  as  I  bid  you.  We  shall  see  what  we  shall 
see.' 

"Very  well,  Roy,  there  is  at  least  four  chap 
ters  to  be  made  from  that,  heh? 

"We  come  now  to  the  crisis.  The  subma 
rine  is  nearing  the  end  of  her  voyage.  They 
begin  to  see  ships  and  they  submerge.  The 
captain  has  told  them,  instead  of  making  for 
New  York  he  is  heading  for  the  coast  of 
Maine,  where  there  will  be  better  opportuni 
ties  of  destroying  the  submarine  and  landing 
unobserved.  It  is  about  six  o'clock  in  the  eve 
ning,  when  he  peeks  through  the  periscope. 
They  are  within  a  short  distance  of  the  main 
land,  but  they  must  lie  on  the  bottom  till  mid 
night,  when  it  will  be  safer  to  go  ashore. 
They  are  all  very  happy.  Once  more  he  gives 
them  rum  all  round,  just  like  this,  and  advises 
them  to  sleep,  for  they  will  get  no  sleep  after 
midnight. 

"They  sleep  very  soundly,  all  except  the 


104  WALKING  SHADOWS 

little  Bavarian  and  the  captain.  Why?  Be 
cause  the  captain  keeps  the  medicine  chest  as 
well  as  the  diamonds.  If  he  had  had  some 
thing  stronger  in  his  medicine  chest  it  would 
have  saved  him  much  trouble  and  danger. 

"While  they  sleep  the  captain  takes  out  the 
diamonds  from  the  strong  box  and  puts  them 
in  his  inside  pockets.  Then  he  examines  the 
batteries.  He  is  an  expert  engineer.  He  can 
make  the  batteries  work  when  every  one  else 
thinks  they  are  dead.  Also  he  can  make  them 
die,  so  that  even  he  can  never  make  them  work 
again.  He  examines  other  parts  of  the  ma 
chinery — those  which  enable  the  submarine  to 
rise  to  the  surface.  He  will  not  allow  the  lit 
tle  Bavarian  to  watch  what  he  is  doing.  Then 
he  puts  on  his  life-belt,  and  looks  at  the  men 
snoring  in  their  hammocks  and  on  the  floor. 
Some  of  them  are  stirring  in  their  sleep. 
There  is  no  time  to  lose  or  he  may  be  inter 
rupted.  At  last  he  is  ready.  The  submarine 
will  never  rise  to  the  surface  again,  and  the 
sea  will  never  betray  the  secret. 

"There  is  only  one  way  for  him  to  get  out, 
and  it  is  not  a  pleasant  way.  But  in  his  night 
mares  he  has  often  rehearsed  it,  and  he  has 
always  made  sure  that  it  could  be  done  before 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE        105 

he  went  to  sea.  There  must  always  be  a  way 
out  for  one  man  at  least,  if  not  for  more. 
'L'etat,  cest  moi/' 

"He  beckons  to  the  little  Bavarian.  'I  have 
all  the  diamonds  in  my  pocket,'  he  says.  'The 
time  is  come  for  you  to  help  me,  Otto.' 

"Now,  Roy,  you  know  what  the  conning 
tower  of  a  submarine  is  like  inside?  It  is  like 
a  round  chimney,  with  a  lid  at  the  top  to  keep 
out  the  water  when  you  are  submerged.  You 
can  climb  up  into  this  conning  tower  and  steer 
the  ship  from  it  if  you  wish.  There  is  also 
another  lid  at  the  bottom  of  the  conning  tower, 
which  you  can  close  as  well.  Then  if  you 
wish  you  can  flood  your  chimney  with  water. 

"Now,  if  a  submarine  cannot  rise  to  the  sur 
face,  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  climb  into  this 
conning  tower.  Another  man  then  closes  the 
lid  below  and  floods  the  tower  very  slowly. 
When  the  water  reaches  the  head  of  the  man 
in  the  tower  there  is  just  enough  pressure  for 
him  to  push  open  the  lid  at  the  top  and  shoot 
up  to  the  surface.  The  lid  at  the  top  can  then 
be  closed  from  the  interior  of  the  submarine. 
The  lower  lid  can  be  opened  slowly,  and  the 
water  from  the  tower  pours  out  into  the  hull. 
Then,  perhaps,  another  man  can  climb  up  into 


io6  WALKING  SHADOWS 

the  tower,  and  the  process  can  be  repeated. 
There  is  room  for  only  one  man  at  a  time. 

"The  captain  tells  the  little  Bavarian  that  he 
is  going  to  do  this.  'But,  my  captain,  it  is  very 
dangerous.  You  may  be  drowned.  It  is  not 
certain  that  you  can  open  it.  The  pressure 
may  be  too  great  above/ 

"  'It  is  for  the  Fatherland,  Otto/  says  the 
captain ;  and  the  little  Bavarian  salutes,  stand 
ing  at  attention,  just  like  a  pretty  little  wax 
doll. 

"  When  the  men  wake,  you  will  be  able  to 
follow  by  the  same  road/  says  the  captain,  and 
he  climbs  up  into  the  conning  tower. 

"The  lower  lid  is  closed.  The  water  begins 
to  creep  up  round  the  captain's  knees  in  the 
darkness.  He  is  horribly  frightened.  He  has 
a  crowbar  in  his  hand  to  help  him  to  open  the 
upper  lid  quickly,  but  he  still  thinks  perhaps 
it  will  not  open.  When  the  water  has  reached 
his  waist  he  begins  to  push  at  the  upper 
lid,  but  it  cannot  move  yet.  The  weight 
of  the  whole  sea  above  is  pressing  down. 
He  knows  it  cannot  move  but  he  cannot  help 
pushing  at  it,  till  the  sweat  breaks  out  on  him, 
though  the  water  is  like  ice.  It  is  worse  than 
he  expected,  worse  than  any  of  his  nightmares. 
The  water  reaches  to  his  neck.  He  struggles 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE         107 

with  all  his  strength,  and  still  the  lid  will  not 
move.  A  prayer  comes  to  his  lips.  The  cold 
water  creeps — creeps  over  his  chin.  There  is 
only  three  inches  now  between  his  face  and  the 
lid.  He  holds  his  head  back  to  keep  his  nos 
trils  above  the  water,  fighting,  fighting  always 
to  open  the  lid.  Then  the  water  covers  his 
face.  The  conning  tower  is  full. 

"He  holds  his  breath,  gives  one  last  push, 
and  feels  the  lid  opening,  opening  softly,  like 
the  big  steel  door  of  a  safe  in  a  bank.  His 
crowbar  is  wedged  under  the  lid,  between  the 
hinges,  just  as  he  wished.  In  four  seconds  he 
is  shooting  up,  up  to  the  surface,  with  his  chest 
bursting,  like  a  diver  that  has  seen  a  shark. 

"For  a  minute  he  floats  there  in  the  dark 
ness,  under  the  stars.  Then — perhaps  the 
struggle  has  been  greater  even  than  he  knew — 
he  faints.  It  is  fortunate  that  his  life-belt  is  a 
good  one,  for  when  he  recovers  he  has  floated 
perhaps  a  long  time.  He  is  very  cold.  He 
takes  a  drink  of  rum  from  his  flask  and  gets  his 
bearings.  He  is  two  miles  from  the  coast. 
Yes,  but  he  is  a  clever  man.  There  is  one  of 
those  little  islands,  covered  with  pine  trees, 
just  a  hundred  and  fifty  yards  away.  There  is 
also  a  wooden  house  on  the  island ;  and  a  land- 


io8  WALKING  SHADOWS 

ing  stage  with  a  dinghy  hauled  up  on  the 
shore. 

"The  owner  of  the  boat  is  careful.  He  has 
taken  his  oars  to  bed  with  him.  But  the  cap 
tain  is  a  clever  man.  It  is  a  beautiful  night. 
He  has  plenty  of  time,  and  he  can  paddle  with 
one  of  the  loose  boards  in  the  bottom  of  the 
dinghy." 

"But  listen !  What  became  of  the  little  Ba 
varian?"  said  Mimika. 

"Well,  I  was  not  there  to  see,"  said  Captain 
Vandermeer,  lighting  a  cigar,  "but  when  the 
men  woke  they  must  all  have  tried  to  get  out 
by  the  same  way." 

"And  they  couldn't?"  asked  Roy.  He  was 
watching  Vandermeer  with  a  very  curious  ex 
pression — almost  as  if  he  were  examining  an 
eyewitness. 

"The  captain  was  an  expert  engineer — ah,  a 
magnificent  engineer  I — as  I  told  you,  Roy,  and 
there  was  a  leetle  crowbar  wedged  under  what 
we  have  been  calling  the  lid  of  the  conning 
tower." 

"Good  God,  what  an  ideal  You  mean  they 
couldn't  close  the  upper  lid  again?" 

"They  might  think  they  had  closed  it." 
Vandermeer  gave  a  deep  guttural  chuckle. 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE        109 

"Then  they  would  open  the  lower  lid,  heh?" 

"And  then?" 

"Why,  then  the  sea  would  come  running 
into  the  hull,  and  they  would  be  drowned." 

"Oh,  but  not  the  poor  little  Bavarian!"  said 
Mimika. 

"L'etat,  cest  moi,"  said  Vandermeer  with  a 
smile. 

Roy  was  looking  at  him  still  with  the  same 
pensive  expression  as  of  a  youthful  Buddha. 

"I  suppose  he  had  no  difficulty  in  getting 
rid  of  the  diamonds,"  he  said. 

"Probably  not,"  said  Vandermeer.  "Per 
haps  he  would  keep  a  few  as  a  reserve — a  kind 
of  Landsturm.  But  he  would  buy  Liberty 
Bonds,  heh?" 

"And  you  mean  to  say  that  a  man  like  that 
is  going  about  in  the  United  States  now?"  said 
Mimika. 

Vandermeer  chuckled  again. 

"Who  knows?"  he  said.  "Perhaps  he  has 
come  to  Southern  California.  Perhaps  he  has 
bought  a  nice  little  ranch — a  fruit  ranch,  just 
like  this,  heh? — where  he  shall  live  a  happy 
and  healthy  life  to  the  age  of  a  hundred.  And 
now,  Mimika,  it  is  getting  time  for  little  girls 
to  go  to  bed." 


no  WALKING  SHADOWS 

About  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  Mimika 
was  wakened  by  a  guttural  choking  cry  from 
her  husband.  She  was  so  startled  that  she 
slipped  out  of  bed  and  stood  staring  at  him. 
The  moon  was  flooding  the  room  almost  like  a 
searchlight,  and  Captain  Vandermeer  lay  in 
the  full  stream  of  it.  While  she  watched  him 
he  rose  slowly  to  a  sitting  posture,  with  his 
eyes  still  shut  and  his  hands  clenched  above 
his  face.  He  began  muttering  to  himself,  in 
a  low  voice  at  first,  and  then  so  loudly  that  it 
echoed  through  the  house;  and  the  words 
sounded  more  like  German  than  Dutch. 
Then  he  began  fighting  for  breath,  like  a  man 
in  a  nightmare.  He  tore  his  pyjama  jacket 
open  over  the  great  red  hairy  chest. 

"Otto!"  he  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 
"Otto!"  Then  with  a  huge  sigh  he  sank  back 
on  the  pillows,  whispering  "I  have  opened  it." 

There  was  a  tap  on  the  door.  Mimika 
snatched  up  a  dressing  gown,  the  first  garment 
she  could  lay  her  hands  on — it  happened  to  be 
Vandermeer's — wrapped  it  round  her,  glided 
across  the  room  and  opened  the  door.  Her 
brother  stood  there,  also  in  a  dressing  gown 
and  bare-footed.  Their  eyes  met  without  a 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE         111 

word.  He  took  her  hand,  led  her  outside  and 
closed  the  door  quietly  behind  them. 

"You  heard  him,  Roy?"  she  whispered. 

"Come  downstairs,"  he  said.  "I  want  to 
ask  you  some  questions  about  this." 

They  went  down  to  the  den  at  the  back  of 
the  house,  and  stood  there  looking  at  each 
other's  faces. 

"He  told  us  a  tale  to-night,"  said  Roy  at 
last. 

"Yes,"  said  Mimika  faintly. 

"Do  you  know  what  he  was  calling  out  in 
his  nightmare?" 

"It  sounded  like  German,"  she  said. 

"Yes,  it  was  German ;  and  it  gave  me  a  good 
deal  more  local  color  than  I  expected.  That 
was  a  true  story  all  right,  Mimika." 

"You  mean  that  he— " 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  but,  Roy!" 

"That's  his  dressing  gown  you're  wearing, 
isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  I  picked  it  up  in  a  hurry." 

"There's  been  too  much  hurry  about  every 
thing,  I'm  afraid.  Why  the  devil  did  I  go  to 
Europe!  Here,  Mimika,  take  off  that  thing 


112  WALKING  SHADOWS 

and  put  mine  on.  I  don't  like  to  see  you  in  it. 
It  doesn't  suit  you,  little  sister." 

She  obeyed  him,  with  a  small  white  fright 
ened  face;  but  it  was  not  the  white  of  powder 
now.  Roy  thrust  his  hand  into  the  pocket 
of  Vandermeer's  dressing  gown.  Something 
jingled.  He  pulled  out  a  bunch  of  keys. 

"Vandermeer  told  me  I  was  good  at  follow 
ing  up  a  clue.  I'm  going  to  follow  one  now, 
Mimika,"  he  said.  "This  is  the  key  of  the 
safe." 

He  opened  the  safe,  looked  hastily  at  the 
bundles  of  papers  and  then  pulled  out  the 
chamois  leather  bag.  "Look  here,  MimiksM" 
he  said  and  poured  a  glittering  river  of  dia 
monds,  several  hundred  of  them,  on  to  the 
table.  The  moonlight  played  over  them  with 
an  uncanny  brilliance. 

"That's  his  Landsturm,"  said  Roy;  "and 
that  settles  it." 

He  took  Mimika's  hand,  and  she  made  no 
protest  as  he  withdrew  the  wedding  ring  from 
her  finger  and  added  it  to  the  glittering  heap 
on  the  table. 

There  was  a  heavy  footstep  in  the  room 
above.  Vandermeer  was  awake  and  moving 
about  upstairs.  The  boards  creaked  over 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE        113 

their  heads,  then  they  heard  his  bedroom  door 
open,  and  the  heavy  footsteps  began  to  descend 
the  stairs. 

Mimika  shrank  behind  her  brother  and  both 
stood  motionless,  waiting.  They  could  hear 
the  heavy  breathing  of  Vandermeer,  the 
breathing  of  a  man  roused  from  a  dyspeptic 
sleep.  He  came  down  with  an  intolerable 
precision,  making  the  twelve  steps  of  that 
short  descent  seem  almost  interminable.  At 
every  step  Mimika  felt  the  edges  of  her  heart 
freezing.  At  last  that  ugly  rhythm  reached 
the  foot  of  the  stairs;  and  with  three  more 
shuffling  steps,  as  of  a  gigantic  ape,  the  hairy 
bulk  of  Vandermeer  stood  in  the  doorway, 
facing  them  across  the  glittering  mound 
of  gems.  The  sharp  searchlight  of  the  moon 
made  his  face  corpselike,  showing  up  the 
puffy  blue  pouches  under  his  eyes  and  picking 
out  the  coarse  red  hairs  of  his  bushy  beard  like 
strands  of  copper  wire.  His  eyes  protruded, 
his  mouth  opened  twice  without  any  sound  but 
the  soft  smacking  of  his  tongue  as  he  tried  to 
moisten  his  lips. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  said  at  last. 

"Looking  at  your  Landsturm,"  said  Roy 
with  all  the  deadly  calm  of  his  nation. 


114  WALKING  SHADOWS 

Vandermeer  swayed  a  little  on  his  feet,  like 
a  drunken  man.  Then  he  moved  forward  to 
the  table  and  blinked  at  the  diamonds  and  the 
gold  ring  crowning  them. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said  at  last. 

"You'd  better  get  dressed,  Mimika,"  said 
Roy.  "Our  train  goes  at  a  quarter  after  four." 
He  led  her  to  the  door,  watched  her  pathetic 
little  figure  mounting  the  stairs  and  turned  to 
Vandermeer  again. 

Mimika  never  knew  what  passed  between 
the  two  men.  When  she  came  out  of  her 
room,  ten  minutes  later,  Roy  was  waiting, 
fully  dressed,  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  with  his 
suit  case  in  his  hand.  She  heard  the  heavy 
breathing  of  Vandermeer  in  his  den;  and  out 
of  the  corner  of  her  eye  as  they  passed  the  door 
she  saw  that  glowing  mass  on  the  table,  as  if  a 
fragment  of  the  moon  had  been  dropped  there. 

They  walked  down  the  long  avenue  of  palms 
in  silence.  In  the  waiting-room  at  the  station 
neither  of  them  spoke  till  they  heard  the  long 
hoot  of  the  approaching  train,  and  the  clangor 
of  the  bell  on  the  transcontinental  locomo 
tive. 

Six  months  later  Mimika  and  her  mother 
were  sitting  up  for  Roy,  in  their  fourth-floor 


THE  CREATIVE  IMPULSE         115 

flat  near  the  offices  of  the  Copley-Willard 
Publishing  Company,  in  Philadelphia. 

"I  wish  he  didn't  have  to  keep  these  late 
hours,"  said  her  mother.  "I  thought  that 
everything  was  turning  out  for  the  best  when 
you  were  married  to  Julius.  I  have  never 
been  able  to  understand  why  you  got  your  di 
vorce  so  quickly.  It  was  all  kept  so  quiet,  and 
you  and  Roy  are  so  mysterious  about  it. 
YouVe  never  even  told  me  the  real  grounds, 
I'm  sure." 

"Yes,  I  did.  It  was  desertion,"  said  Mi- 
mika  grimly. 

"Does  nobody  know  what  became  of  him? 
It  seems  so  strange  that  he  should  have  gone 
away  and  left  all  the  furniture  in  that  house. 
He  had  some  lovely  things  too.  I  think  you 
might  at  least  have  claimed  the  furniture." 

"Please,  mother,  don't  talk  about  that  or  we 
shall  be  making  the  same  mistake  again.  I 
expect  he's  shaved  his  beard  by  now." 

"Mimika,  child,  what  do  you  mean?  Are 
you  crazy?" 

"I  think  we  were  both  crazy,  mother,  a  year 
ago." 

"Well,  I  thought  it  was  all  for  your  happi 
ness,  my  pet,"  said  her  mother,  dabbing  her 


ii6  WALKING  SHADOWS 

eyes  with  her  handkerchief.  "I'm  afraid  it 
will  be  a  long  time  before  you  can  marry  this 
other  young  man,  that  Roy  likes  so  much. 
He  isn't  earning  half  so  good  a  salary  as  Roy." 

"I  don't  know  that  I'm  going  to  marry  any 
one,  mother.  But  listen  I  I  feel  like  marry 
ing  the  first  good  American  that  comes  to  me 
with  a  piece  of  the  original  Mayflower  in  his 
buttonhole." 

And,  this  time,  her  mother  almost  listened. 


IV 
THE  MAN  FROM  BUFFALO 

THE  patrol  boats  had  been  buffeting 
their  way  all  night  against  wind  and 
weather,  and  before  daybreak  the 
long  line  had  lost  its  order.  It  was  broken 
up  now  into  little  wandering  loops  and  sec 
tions,  busily  comparing  notes  by  Morse  flashes 
and  wireless.  Last  evening  the  Morning 
Glory,  a  converted  yacht  of  American  owner 
ship,  had  been  working  with  forty  British 
trawlers;  and  her  owner,  Matthew  Hudson, 
who  had  obtained  permission  to  go  out  with 
her  on  this  trip,  had  watched  with  admiration 
the  way  in  which  they  strung  themselves  over 
twenty  miles  of  confused  sea,  keeping  their 
exact  distances  till  nightfall.  This  morning, 
as  he  lurched  in  gleaming  oilskins  up  and 
down  the  monkey  house — irreverent  name  for 
his  canvas-screened  bridge — he  could  see  only 
three  of  his  companions — the  Dusty  Miller, 

the  Christmas  Day  and  the  Betsey  Barton. 

117 


ii8  WALKING  SHADOWS 

They  were  all  having  a  lively  time.  They 
swooped  like  herring  gulls  into  the  broad 
troughs  of  the  swell,  where  the  black  water 
looked  like  liquid  marble  with  white  veins 
of  foam  in  it.  Morning-colored  rainbows 
dripped  from  their  bows  as  they  rose  again 
through  the  green  sunlit  crests.  But  the 
Morning  Glory  was  the  brightest  and  the  live 
liest  of  them  all.  The  seas  had  been  washing 
her  decks  all  night.  Little  pools  of  color 
shone  in  the  wet,  crumpled  oilskins  of  the 
crew,  and  the  tarpaulin  that  covered  the  gun 
in  her  bow  gleamed  like  a  cloak  dropped  there 
by  the  Angel  of  the  Dawn. 

When  like  the  morning  mist  in  early  day 

Rose  from  the  foam  the  daughter  of  the  sea 

Matthew  Hudson  quoted  to  himself.  He  was 
full  of  poetry  this  morning  while  he  waited 
for  his  breakfast;  and  the  radiant  aspect  of  the 
weapon  in  the  bow  reminded  him  of  some 
thing  else — if  the  smell  of  the  frying  bacon 
would  not  blow  his  way  and  distract  his  mind 
— something  about  "celestial  armories."  Was 
it  Tennyson  or  Milton  who  had  written  it? 
There  was  a  passage  about  guns  in  "Paradise 
Lost."  He  must  look  it  up. 


THE  MAN  FROM  BUFFALO       119 

Like  many  Americans,  Matthew  Hudson 
was  quicker  to  perceive  the  true  romance  of 
the  Old  Country  than  many  of  its  own  inhabi 
tants.  He  had  been  particularly  interested  in 
the  names  of  the  British  trawlers.  "It's  like 
seeing  Shakespere's  Sonnets  or  Percy's  Rel- 
iques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry  going  out  to 
fight,"  he  had  written  to  his  son,  who  had  just 
left  Princeton  to  join  the  Mosquito  Fleet;  and 
the  youngster  had  replied  with  a  sonnet  of  his 
own. 

Matthew  Hudson  had  carried  it  about  with 
him  and  read  it  to  English  statesmen,  greatly 
to  their  embarrassment — most  of  them  looked 
as  if  they  were  receiving  a  proposal  of  mar 
riage — and  he  had  found  a  huge  secret  joy 
in  their  embarrassment,  which,  as  he  said, 
"tickled  him  to  death."  But  he  murmured 
the  verses  to  himself  now,  with  paternal  pride, 
thinking  that  the  boy  had  really  gone  to  the 
heart  of  the  matter: 

Out  of  Old  England's  inmost  heart  they  go, 
A  little  fleet  of  ships,  whose  every  name — 

Daffodil,  Sea  Lark,  Rose,  and  Surf,  and  Snow — 
Burns  in  this  blackness  like  an  altar  flame. 

Out  of  her  past  they  sail,  three  thousand  strong — 
The  people's  fleet,  that  never  knew  its  worth; 


120  WALKING  SHADOWS 

And  every  name  is  a  broken  phrase  of  song 
To  some  remembered  loveliness  on  earth. 

There's  Barbara  Cowie,  Comely  Bank  and  May, 
Christened  at  home}  in  worlds  of  dawn  and  dew. 

There's  Ruth,  and  Kindly  Light,  and  Robin  Gray, 
With  Mizpah.     May  that  simple  prayer  come  true! 

Out  of  Old  England's  inmost  heart  they  sail, 
A  fleet  of  memories  that  can  never  fail. 

At  this  moment  the  Morning  Glory  ran  into 
a  bank  of  white  mist,  which  left  him  nothing 
to  see  from  the  bridge.  The  engines  were 
slowed  down  and  he  decided  that  it  was  time 
for  breakfast. 

The  cabin  where  he  breakfasted  with  the 
skipper  was  very  little  changed,  except  that  it 
seemed  by  contrast  a  little  more  palatial  than 
in  peace  time.  Tfiere  had  been  many  changes 
on  the  exterior  of  the  ship.  Her  white  and 
gold  had  been  washed  over  with  service  gray, 
and  many  beautiful  fittings  had  been  removed 
to  make  way  for  grimmer  work.  But  within 
there  were  still  some  corners  of  the  yacht  that 
shone  like  gems  in  a  setting  of  lead. 

The  Morning  Glory  had  been  a  very  beau 
tiful  boat.  She  had  been  built  for  summer 
cruising  among  the  pine-clad  islands  off  the 


THE  MAN  FROM  BUFFALO       121 

coast  of  Maine,  or  to  carry  her  master  down  to 
the  palms  of  his  own  little  island  off  the  coast 
of  Florida,  where  he  basked  for  a  month  or  so 
among  the  ripening  oranges,  the  semitropical 
blossoms  and  the  cardinal  birds,  while  Buffalo 
cleared  the  worst  of  the  snow  from  her  streets. 
For  Matthew  Hudson  was  a  man  of  many 
millions,  which  he  had  made  in  almost  the 
only  country  where  millions  can  be  made  hon 
estly  and  directly  out  of  its  enormous  natural 
resources. 

His  own  method  had  been  a  very  simple  one, 
though  it  required  great  organizing  ability 
and  a  keen  eye  and  brain  at  the  outset.  All  he 
had  done  was  to  harness  a  river  at  the  right 
place  and  make  it  drive  a  light-and-power 
plant.  But  he  had  done  it  on  a  scale  that  en 
abled  him,  from  this  one  central  station,  to 
drive  all  the  electric  trolleys  and  light  all  the 
lamps  in  more  than  a  hundred  cities.  He 
could  supply  all  the  light  and  all  the  power 
they  wanted  to  cities  a  hundred  miles  away 
from  his  plant,  and  he  talked  of  sending  it 
three  hundred  miles  farther. 

Now  that  the  system  was  established,  it 
worked  as  easily  as  the  river  flowed;  and  his 
power  house  was  a  compact  little  miracle  of 


122  WALKING  SHADOWS 

efficiency.  All  that  the  casual  visitor  could 
see  was  a  long,  quiet  room,  in  which  it 
seemed  that  a  dozen  clocks  were  slumbrously 
ticking.  These  were  the  indicators,  from  the 
dials  of  which  the  amount  of  power  distrib 
uted  over  a  district  as  big  as  England  could  be 
read  by  the  two  leisurely  men  on  duty.  In  the 
meantime,  night  and  day,  the  river  poured 
power  of  another  kind  into  the  treasury  of 
Matthew  Hudson. 

But  his  life  was  as  unlike  that  of  the  mil 
lionaires  of  fiction  as  could  be  imagined.  It 
reminded  one  of  the  room  with  the  slumbrous 
clocks. 

He  was,  indeed,  as  his  own  men  described  it, 
preeminently  the  "man  behind  the  gun." 
When  the  Morning  Glory  had  been  accepted 
by  the  naval  authorities  he  had  obtained  per 
mission  to  equip  her  for  her  own  work  in  Eu 
ropean  waters  at  his  own  cost,  and  to  make  cer 
tain  experiments  in  the  equipment. 

The  Admiralty  had  not  looked  with  favor 
on  some  of  his  ideas,  which  were  by  no  means 
suitable  for  general  use  in  the  patrol  fleet. 
But  Matthew  Hudson  had  too  many  weapons 
at  work  against  Germany  for  them  to  deny  him 


THE  MAN  FROM  BUFFALO       123 

a  sentimental  pleasure  in  his  own  yacht  He 
seemed  to  have  some  particular  purpose  of  his 
own  in  carrying  out  his  ideas ;  and  so  it  came 
about  that  the  Morning  Glory  was  regarded 
among  her  companions  as  a  mystery-ship. 

The  two  men  breakfasted  in  silence.  They 
were  both  drowsy,  for  there  had  been  a  U-boat 
alarm  during  the  night,  which  had  kept  them 
very  much  awake;  but  Hudson  was  roused 
from  his  reverie  over  the  second  rasher  by  a 
loud  report,  followed  by  a  confused  shouting 
above  and  the  stoppage  of  the  engines. 

"That's  not  a  submarine !"  said  the  skipper. 
"What  the  devil  is  it?"  And  the  two  men 
rushed  on  deck. 

The  mist  had  lifted  a  little;  and,  looming 
out  of  it,  a  few  hundred  yards  away,  there 
was  something  that  looked,  at  first  glance,  like 
a  great  gray  reef.  For  a  fraction  of  a  mo 
ment  Hudson  thought  they  had  run  into  Heli 
goland  in  the  mist.  At  the  second  glance 
he  knew  that  the  gray,  mist-wreathed  monster 
before  him  was  an  armored  ship,  and  the  skip 
per  enlightened  him  further  by  saying,  in  a 
matter-of-fact  voice: 

"That    settles    it — enemy    cruiser  1    We're 


124  WALKING  SHADOWS 

stopped,  broadside  on.  They've  got  a  couple 
of  guns  trained  on  us  and  they're  sending  a 
boat.  What's  the  next  move?" 

Matthew  Hudson's  face  was  a  curious  study 
at  this  moment.  It  suggested  a  leopard  en 
dowed  with  a  sense  of  humor.  His  mouth 
twitched  at  the  corners  and  his  amazingly 
clear  eyes  were  lit  with  an  almost  boyish  jubi 
lation.  It  was  a  somewhat  fierce  jubilation ; 
but  it  undoubtedly  twinkled  with  the  humor 
of  the  New  World.  Then  he  asked  the  skip 
per  a  mysterious  question : 

"Is  it  impossible?" 

"Impossible  I  We're  in  the  wrong  position ; 
and  if  we  try  to  get  right  they'll  blow  us  to 
bits.  Besides,  they'll  be  aboard  in  half  a  min 
ute.  We're  drifting  a  little  in  the  right  direc 
tion;  but  it  will  be  too  late.  They'll  search 
the  ship." 

"How  long  will  it  take  us  to  drift  into  the 
right  position?" 

"If  we  go  on  like  this,  about  four  minutes. 
But  it  will  be  all  over  by  then." 

"Look  here,  Davis;  I'll  try  and  detain  them 
on  deck.  You  know  Americans  have  a  repu 
tation  for  oratory.  You'd  better  go  through 
my  room.  And — look  here — I'll  be  the  skip- 


THE  MAN  FROM  BUFFALO       125 

per  for  the  time  being.  I'm  afraid  they'll 
want  to  take  Matthew  Hudson  prisoner;  so 
I'll  be  the  kind  of  American  they'll  recognize 
— Commander  Jefferson  B.  Thrash,  out  of  the 
best  British  fiction.  You  don't  happen  to 
have  a  lasso  in  your  pocket,  do  you?  I  lent 
mine  to  ex-President  Eliot  of  Harvard,  and 
he  hasn't  returned  it.  Tell  the  men  there. 
That's  right!  I  don't  want  to  be  playing  the 
fool  in  Ruhleben  for  the  next  three  years." 

A  few  moments  later,  a  step  at  a  time,  Davis 
disappeared  into  Hudson's  cabin,  which  lay  in 
the  fore  part  of  the  ship.  Two  other  men 
prepared  to  slip  after  him  by  lounging  cas 
ually  in  the  companionway,  while  the  men  in 
front  moved  a  little  closer  to  screen  them. 

They  seized  their  chance  as  the  German 
boat  stopped,  twenty  yards  away  from  the 
Morning  Glory,  and  the  officer  in  command 
announced  through  a  megaphone,  in  very 
good  English,  that  he  was  in  a  great  hurry. 
They  were  friends,  he  said ;  and  there  was  no 
need  for  alarm,  so  long  as  the  Morning  Glory 
carried  out  all  instructions.  All  they  wanted 
was  the  confidential  chart  of  the  British  mine 
fields,  which  the  Morning  Glory,  of  course, 
possessed,  and  all  other  confidential  papers  of 


126  WALKING  SHADOWS 

a  similar  kind.  If  the  Morning  Glory  did 
not  carry  out  his  instructions  in  every  detail 
the  guns  of  the  cruiser  would  sink  her.  He 
was  now  coming  aboard  to  secure  the  papers. 

"I  guess  that's  all  right,  captain!"  bawled 
Matthew  Hudson  in  an  entirely  new  voice  and 
the  accent  that  Europe  accepts  as  American, 
with  about  as  much  reason  as  America  would 
have  for  accepting  the  Lancashire,  Yorkshire 
and  Glasgow  dialects,  all  rolled  into  one,  as 
English. 

The  quiet  member  of  the  Century  Club  had 
disappeared,  and  the  golden,  remote  Wild 
Westerner,  almost  unknown  in  America  itself, 
had  risen.  In  half  a  minute  more  the  Ger 
man  officer  and  half  a  dozen  armed  sailors 
were  standing  on  the  deck  of  the  Morning 
Glory. 

"So  you  see  England  does  not  gompletely 
rule  the  waves,"  was  the  opening  remark  of 
the  officer,  who  had  not  yet  received  the  full 
benefit  of  Hudson's  adopted  accent. 

"Been  finding  it  stormy  in  the  canal,  cap?" 
drawled  Hudson.  "Don't  blame  it  on  me, 
anyway.  I'm  a  good  Amurrican — Jefferson 
B.  Thrash,  of  Buffalo." 

"Is  this  an  American  ship?     I  much  regret 


THE  MAN  FROM  BUFFALO       127 

to  find  an  American  ship  fighting  her  best 
friends." 

"Well,  cap,  I  confess  I  haven't  much  use 
for  the  British,  myself;  not  since  their  press 
talked  about  my  picture-postcard  smile — an 
ill-considered  phrase,  by  which  they  uncon 
sciously  meant  that,  among  the  effete  aristoc 
racies  of  Europe,  they  were  not  used  to  seeing 
good  teeth.  They  lack  humor,  sir.  To  re 
gard  good  teeth  as  abnormal  shows  a  lack  of 
humor  on  the  part  of  the  British  press. 

"However,  as  George  Bernard  Shaw  says, 
President  Wilson  has  put  it  up  to  the  German 
people  in  this  way:  'Become  a  republic  and 
we'll  let  up  on  you.  Go  on  Kaisering  and 
we'll  smash  you!'  " 

"I  am  in  a  great  hurry,"  the  German  officer 
replied.  "I  must  ask  you  at  once  for  your 
confidential  papers." 

"That's  all  right,  admiral!"  said  Hudson. 
"I've  sent  a  man  down  below  to  get  them  out 
of  my  steamer  trunk.  They'll  be  here  right 
away." 

He  looked  reflectively  at  the  guns  of  the 
destroyer  and  added  ingratiatingly: 

"Of  course  I  disapprove  of  George  Bernard 
Shaw's  vulgarizing  the  language  of  diplomacy 


128  WALKING  SHADOWS 

in  that  way.  I  would  rather  interpret  Presi 
dent  Wilson's  message  as  saying  to  the  German 
people,  in  courteous  phrase:  'Emerge  from 
twelfth-century  despotism  into  twentieth-cen 
tury  democracy.  Send  the  imperial  liar  who 
misrules  you  to  join  Nick  Romanoff  on  his 
ranch.  Give  the  furniture-stealing  Crown 
Prince  a  long  term  in  any  Sing  Sing  you  like 
to  choose;  and  we  will  again  buy  dyestuffs 
and  toys  of  you,  and  sell  you  our  beans  and 
bacon/  " 

"Are  you  aware  that  you  endanger  your  life 
by  this  language?  Do  you  see  those  guns?" 

Matthew  Hudson  looked  at  the  guns  and 
spat  over  the  side  of  the  ship  meditatively. 
Then  he  looked  the  questioner  squarely  in  the 
eye.  He  had  taken  the  measure  of  his  man 
and  he  only  needed  three  and  a  half  minutes 
more.  Any  question  that  could  be  raised  was 
clear  gain;  and  the  cruiser  would  probably 
not  use  her  guns  while  members  of  the  Ger 
man  crew  were  aboard  the  Morning  Glory. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "and  you'd  better  not  use 
your  guns  till  you  get  those  confidential  pa 
pers,  for  there's  not  a  chance  that  you'll  find 
them  without  my  help.  They're  worth  hav 
ing,  and  I've  no  objection  to  handing  them 


THE  MAN  FROM  BUFFALO       129 

over,  though  I  don't  lay  much  store  by  your 
promise  not  to  shoot  afterward.  When 
youVe  got  them,  how  am  I  to  know  that  you 
won't  shoot,  anyway,  and — what's  the  latest 
language  of  your  diplomacy? — 'leave  no 
traces'?  By  cripes,  there's  no  mushy  senti 
ment  about  your  officials!  No,  sir!  Leave 
no  traces! — and  they  said  it  about  neutrals, 
remember!  Leave  no  traces!  That's  virile! 
That's  red-blooded  stuff!  The  effete  humani- 
tarianism  of  our  democracy,  sir,  would  call 
that  murder.  In  England  they  would  call  it 
bloody  murder!  I  don't  agree.  I  think  that 
war  is  war.  Of  course  it's  awkward  for  non- 
combatants — " 

"With  regard  to  the  crews,  it  has  been  an 
nounced  in  Germany  that  they  would  be  saved 
and  kept  prisoners  in  the  submarines.  Your 
man  is  taking  too  long  to  find  your  papers. 
I  can  allow  you  only  one  minute  more." 

"He'll  be  right  back,  captain,  with  all  the 
confidential  goods  you  want.  But,  say,  be 
tween  one  sailorman  and  another,  that  story 
about  planning  to  hide  crews  and  passengers 
aboard  the  submarines  must  have  been  meant 
for  our  Middle  West.  Last  time  I  was  on  a 
submarine  I  had  to  sleep  behind  the  cookstove ; 


130  WALKING  SHADOWS 

and  then  the  commander  had  to  sit  up  all 
night.  It's  the  right  stuff  for  the  prairies, 
though.  Ever  hear  of  our  senator,  cap,  who 
wanted  to  know  why  the  women  and  kids  on 
the  Lusitania  weren't  put  into  the  water-tight 
compartments?  They  cussed  the  Cunard 
Company  from  hell  to  breakfast  out  Kalama- 
zoo  way  for  that  scandalous  oversight.  Won 
der  what's  keeping  that  son  of  a  gun!" 

At  this  moment  the  son  of  a  gun  announced 
from  the  companionway  that  he  was  unable  to 
find  the  confidential  papers. 

"I  can  wait  no  longer.  The  ship  must  be 
searched  by  my  own  men,"  said  the  German 
peremptorily.  "Are  the  papers  in  your 
cabin?" 

"Sure!  But  I  can  save  you  a  lot  of  time, 
captain.  I'll  lead  you  right  to  them." 

The  Morning  Glory  had  drifted  round  till 
her  nose  was  now  pointing  towards  that  of  the 
cruiser.  In  a  minute  or  two  more  she  would 
be  pointing  directly  amidships  if  the  drifting 
continued.  Matthew  Hudson  took  a  long, 
affectionate  look  at  the  guns  and  the  guns' 
crews  that  kept  watch  over  his  behavior  from 
the  gray  monster  ahead ;  then  he  led  the  way 
below  to  his  cabin. 


THE  MAN  FROM  BUFFALO       131 

The  Hamburg-Amerika  Line  had  many  a 
less  imposing  room  than  this,  the  only  part  of 
the  yacht  that  retained  all  its  old  aspect.  It 
ran  the  whole  breadth  of  the  ship  and  had  two 
portholes  on  each  side.  There  was  a  brass 
bedstead,  with  a  telephone  beside  it  and  an 
electric  reading  lamp.  There  were  half  a 
dozen  other  electric  bulbs  overhead. 

"I  don't  sleep  very  well,  cap;  so  I  decided 
to  keep  this  bit  of  sinful  splendor  for  my  own 
use.  Bathroom,  you  see."  He  opened  a  tiny 
door  near  the  bed  and  showed  the  compact 
room,  with  its  white  bath-tub  let  into  the  floor. 
This  was  too  much  for  the  German  officer. 

"Where  do  you  keep  your  confidential 
papers?"  he  bellowed,  leveling  a  revolver  at 
the  maddeningly  complacent  American,  while 
three  of  his  men  closed  up  behind  him,  ready 
for  action. 

"Better  not  shoot,  admiral,  for  you  won't 
find  them  without  my  help;  and  I'm  going  to 
hand  you  the  goods  in  half  a  minute.  I  can't 
quite  remember  where  I  put  them.  There's 
some  confidential  stuff  in  here,  I  think." 

He  unlocked  a  drawer  and  pulled  out  a 
bundle  of  papers.  A  small  white  object 
dropped  from  the  bundle  and  lay  on  the  floor 


132  WALKING  SHADOWS 

between  him  and  the  German.  It  was  a 
baby's  shoe.  Hudson  nodded  at  it  as  he 
looked  through  the  papers. 

"Got  any  kids,  cap?  That  came  from 
Queenstown.  Ah,  this  looks  like  your  chart. 
No.  Came  from  Queenstown,  I  say.  It  was 
a  little  girl  belonging  to  a  friend  of  mine  in 
the  City  of  Brotherly  Love.  Lots  of  'em  on 
the  Lusitania,  you  know.  We  collect  souve 
nirs  in  America,  and  I  asked  him  for  this  as  a 
keepsake  when  I  came  on  this  gunning  expedi 
tion.  He  kept  the  other  for  himself.  She 
was  a  pretty  little  thing.  Only  six!  Used  to 
call  me  Uncle  Jack." 

He  stole  a  look  through  the  porthole  and 
drew  another  document  from  the  drawer. 

"Ah!  Now  I  remember.  Here's  the  stuff 
you  want — some  of  it,  anyhow.  Tied  round 
with  yaller  ribbon.  Take  it,  cap.  I  wish  I 
hadn't  seen  that  little  shoe;  but  you've  got  the 
drop  on  me  this  time  and  I  suppose  it's  my 
duty  to  save  the  lives  of  the  men.  There's  a 
good  bit  of  information  there  about  the  mine 
fields." 

The  German  hurriedly  examined  the 
papers,  while  Hudson  hummed  to  himself  as 
he  stared  through  the  porthole: 


THE  MAN  FROM  BUFFALO      133 

Around  her  little  neck  she  wore  a  yaller  ribbon; 

She  wore  it  in  December  and  the  merry  month  of  May. 
And  when,  oh,  when  they  asked  her  why  in  hell  she 

wore  itj 
She  said  she  loved  a  sailor,  a  sailor,  a  sailor; 

But  he  was  wrecked  and  drownded  in  Mississippi  Bay. 

"This  is  very  good,"  said  the  German,  "and 
very  useful.  I  think  we  shall  not  require 
more  of  you;  though  it  will  be  necessary  to 
destroy  your  ship  and  make  you  prisoners." 

"Why,    certainly!     I    didn't   suppose   you 

could  keep  your  contract  in  wartime.     You 

can't  leave  traces  of  a  deal  like  this.     But 

while  you're  about  it,  you  may  as  well  have 

/  all  the  confidential  stuff." 

"Good!  Good!"  said  the  German,  strut 
ting  toward  him.  "So  there's  more  to  come! 
I  am  glad  you  see  the  advantage  in  being  too 
proud  to  fight,  my  friend,  eh?" 

Matthew  Hudson's  eye  twinkled.  His 
slouch  began  to  slip  away  from  him  like  a 
loose  coat,  leaving  once  more  the  quiet  up 
standing  member  of  the  Century  Club. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "you  would  make  that 
mistake.  The  British  made  it.  They  forgot 
that  it  was  said  about  Mexico,  at  a  time  when 
you  wanted  us  to  be  kept  busy  down  there. 


134  WALKING  SHADOWS 

There  are  times,  also,  when  for  diplomatic 
reasons  it  is  necessary  to  talk."  He  had  re 
sumed  his  natural  voice.  "When  you  are  get 
ting  ready,  for  instance.  This  is  where  we 
keep  the  real  stuff." 

He  crossed  the  cabin;  and  the  German 
watched  him  closely  with  a  puzzled  expres 
sion,  covering  him  with  his  revolver. 

"No  treachery!"  he  said.  "What  does  this 
mean?  You  are  not  the  man  you  were  pre 
tending  to  be." 

Hudson  laughed,  and  tossed  him  a  little 
scrap  of  bunting,  which  he  had  been  holding 
crumpled  up  in  his  hand. 

"Ever  seen  that  flag  before?"  he  said. 

The  German  stared  at  it,  his  eyes  growing 
round  with  amazement. 

"The  Kaiser's  flag  has  flown  on  this  yacht 
at  the  Kiel  Regatta  many  a  time,"  said  Hud 
son.  "His  Majesty  used  to  come  and  lunch 
with  me.  I  don't  advise  you  to  shoot  me. 
He  might  remember  some  of  my  cigars.  He 
gave  me  that  flag  himself.  Of  course  I  shan't 
use  it  again — not  till  it's  been  sprinkled  with 
holy  water.  But  I  thought  you  might  like  a 
brief  exhibition  of  shirt-sleeve  navalism,  as  I 
suppose  you'd  call  it. 


THE  MAN  FROM  BUFFALO       135 

"Most  Europeans  like  us  to  live  up  to  their 
ideas  of  us.  The  British  do.  Ever  hear  of 
Senator  Martin?  Whenever  he's  in  London 
and  goes  to  see  his  friends  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  he  wears  a  sombrero  and  a  red  cow 
boy  shirt.  He  says  they  expect  it  and  like  it. 
He  wouldn't  care  to  do  it  in  New  York.  As 
a  fact,  you  know,  we  invented  the  electric  tele 
graph  and  the  submarine,  and  a  lot  of  little 
things  that  you  fellows  have  been  stealing  from 
us.  Do  you  hear  that?" 

There  were  two  sharp  clicks  in  the  bows, 
followed  by  a  faint  sound  like  the  whirring 
of  an  electric  fan  under  water;  and  Hudson 
pulled  open  the  door  that  led  into  the  fore  part 
of  the  ship. 

"Gott!  Gott/"  cried  the  German,  and  his 
men  echoed  it  inarticulately;  for  there,  in  the 
semidarkness  of  the  bows  of  the  Morning 
Glory,  they  saw  the  dim  shapes  of  seamen 
crouching  beside  two  gleaming  torpedo  tubes. 
The  torpedoes  had  just  been  discharged. 

"You're  too  late  to  save  your  ship,"  said 
Matthew  Hudson.  "If  you  want  to  save  your 
own  skins  you'd  better  keep  still  and  listen  for 
a  moment." 

Then  came  a  concussion  that  rocked  the 


136  WALKING  SHADOWS 

Morning  Glory  like  a  child's  cradle  and  sent 
her  German  visitors  lurching  and  sprawling 
round  the  brass  bedstead.  When  they  recov 
ered  they  found  a  dozen  revolvers  gleaming  in 
front  of  their  noses. 

"Before  we  say  anything  more  about  this," 
said  Hudson,  "let's  go  on  deck  and  look. 

"Do  you  mind  giving  me  that  little  shoe  at 
your  feet  there?" 

The  officer  turned  a  shade  whiter  than  the 
shoe. 

Then,  stooping,  he  picked  it  up  and  handed 
it  to  Hudson,  who  thrust  it  into  his  breast 
pocket. 

"Thank  you!"  he  said.  "Now  if  you  will 
all  leave  your  guns  on  this  bed  we'll  go  on 
deck  and  see  the  traces." 

When  they  reached  the  deck  there  was 
something  that  looked  like  an  enormous 
drowning  cockroach  trying  to  crawl  out  of  the 
water  four  hundred  yards  away.  Round  it 
there  seemed  to  be  a  mass  of  drowning  flies. 

"It's  not  a  pleasant  sight,  is  it?"  said  Hud 
son.  "But  it's  good  to  know  they  were  all 
fighting  men,  ready  to  kill  or  be  killed.  No 
women  and  children  among  them!  The 
Lusitanla  must  have  looked  much  worse." 


THE  MAN  FROM  BUFFALO       137 

"My  brother  is  on  board !  Are  you  not  try 
ing  to  save  them?"  gasped  the  officer. 

Hudson  took  out  the  little  shoe  again  and 
looked  at  it.  Then  he  turned  to  the  German 
boat's  crew,  where  they  huddled,  sick  with 
fear,  amidships. 

"Take  your  boat  and  pick  up  as  many  as 
you  can,"  he  said. 

"It  is  not  safe — not  till  she  sinks,"  a  guttural 
voice  replied. 

Almost  on  the  word  the  cruiser  went  down 
with  a  rush.  The  sleek  waters  and  the  white 
mists  closed  above  her,  while  the  Morning 
Glory  rocked  again  like  a  child's  cradle. 

"That  is  true,"  said  Matthew  Hudson  to 
the  shivering  figure  beside  him.  "And  we've 
got  as  many  as  we  can  handle  on  the  ship.  If 
we  took  more  of  you  aboard,  according  to  the 
laws  laid  down  in  your  text-books,  you'd  cut 
our  throats  and  call  us  idiotic  Yankees  for 
trusting  you. 

"Please  don't  weep.  We  sent  out  a  call  a 
minute  ago  for  the  Betsy  Barton  and  the  Dusty 
Miller  and  the  Christmas  Day.  I'm  not  an 
effete  humanitarian  myself;  but  the  men  on 
these  trawlers  aren't  bad  sorts.  I  hope  they'll 
pick  up  your  brother." 


THE  LUSITANIA  WAITS 

ON  a  stormy  winter's  night  three  skip 
pers — averaging  three  score  years 
and  five — were  discussing  the  news, 
around  a  roaring  fire,  in  the  parlor  of  the 
White  Horse  Inn.  Five  years  ago  they  had 
retired,  each  on  a  snug  nest-egg.  They  were 
looking  forward  to  a  mellow  old  age  in  port 
and  a  long  succession  of  evenings  at  the  White 
Horse,  where  they  gathered  to  debate  the  poli 
tics  of  their  district.  The  war  had  given  them 
new  topics;  but  Captain  John  Kendrick — who 
had  become  a  parish  councilor  and  sometimes 
carried  bulky  blue  documents  in  his  breast 
pocket,  displaying  the  edges  with  careful 
pride — still  kept  the  local  pot  a-boiling.  He 
was  mainly  successful  on  Saturday  nights, 
when  the  Gazette,  their  weekly  newspaper, 
appeared.  It  was  edited  by  a  Scot  named 
Macpherson,  who  had  learned  his  job  on  the 

Arbroath  Free  Press. 

138 


THE  LUSITANIA  WAITS          139 

"Macpherson  will  never  be  on  the  council 
now,"  said  Captain  Kendrick.  "There's  a 
rumor  that  he's  a  freethinker.  He  says  that 
Christianity  has  been  proved  a  failure  by  the 


war." 


"Well,  these  chaps  of  ours  now,"  said  Cap 
tain  Davidson,  "out  at  sea  on  a  night  like  this, 
trying  to  kill  Germans.  It's  necessary,  I 
know,  because  the  Germans  would  kill  our 
own  folks  if  we  gave  'em  a  chance.  But  don't 
it  prove  that  there's  no  use  for  Christianity? 
In  modern  civilization,  I  mean." 

"Macpherson's  no  freethinker,"  said  Cap 
tain  Morgan,  who  was  a  friend  of  the  editor, 
and  inclined  on  the  strength  of  it  to  occupy 
the  intellectual  chair  at  the  White  Horsa. 
"Macpherson  says  we'll  have  to  try  again  after 
the  war,  or  it  will  be  blood  and  iron  all 
round." 

"He's  upset  by  the  war,"  said  Captain  Da 
vidson,  "and  he's  taken  to  writing  poytry  in 
his  paper.  He'd  best  be  careful  or  he'll  lose 
his  circulation." 

"Ah!"  said  Kendrick.  "That's  what  'ull 
finish  him  for  the  council.  What  we  want  is 
practical  men.  Poytry  would  destroy  any 
man's  reputation.  There  was  a  great  deal  of 


I4o  WALKING  SHADOWS 

talk  caused  by  his  last  one,  about  our  trawler 
chaps.  'Fishers  of  Men/  he  called  it ;  and  I'm 
not  sure  that  it  wouldn't  be  considered  blas- 
phemious  by  a  good  many." 

Captain  Morgan  shook  his  head.  "Every 
Sunday  evening,"  he  said,  "my  missus  asks  me 
to  read  her  Macpherson's  pome  in  the  Gazette, 
and  I've  come  to  enjoy  them  myself.  Now, 
what  does  he  say  in  'Fishers  of  Men'?" 

"Read  it,"  said  Kendrick,  picking  the  Ga 
zette  from  the  litter  of  newspapers  on  the  table 
and  handing  it  to  Morgan.  "If  you  know 
how  to  read  poytry,  read  it  aloud,  the  way 
you  do  to  your  missus.  I  can't  make  head  or 
tail  of  poytry  myself;  but  it  looks  blasphe- 
mious  to  me." 

Captain  Morgan  wiped  his  big  spectacles 
while  the  other  two  settled  themselves  to  lis 
ten  critically.  Then  he  began  in  his  best 
Sunday  voice,  very  slowly,  but  by  no  means 
unimpressively: 

Long,  long  ago  He  said, 

He  who  could  wake  the  deadt 

And  walk  upon  the  sea — 
"Come,  follow  Me. 

"Leave  your  broivn  nets  and  bring 
Only  your  hearts  to  singt 


THE  LUSITANIA  WAITS          141 

Only  your  souls  to  pray, 
Rise,  come  away. 

"Shake  out  your  spirit-sails, 
And  brave  those  wilder  gales, 

And  I  will  make  you  then 
Fishers  of  men'' 

Was  this,  then,  what  He  meant? 
Was  this  His  high  intent, 

After  two  thousand  years 
Of  blood  and  tears? 

God  help  us,  if  we  fight 
For  right  and  not  for  might. 

God  help  us  if  we  seek 
To  shield  the  weak. 

Then,  though  His  heaven  be  far 
From  this  blind  welter  of  war, 

He'll  bless  us  on  the  sea 
From  Calvary. 

"It  seems  to  rhyme  all  right,"  said  Ken- 
drick.  "It's  not  so  bad  for  Macpherson." 

"Have  you  heard,"  said  Davidson  reflec 
tively,  "they're  wanting  more  trawler  skippers 
down  at  the  base?" 

"I've  been  fifty  years,  man  and  boy,  at  sea," 
said  Captain  Morgan;  "that's  half  a  century, 
mind  you." 


142  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"Ah,  it's  hard  on  the  women,  too,"  said  Da 
vidson.  "We're  never  sure  what  boats  have 
been  lost  till  we  see  the  women  crying.  I 
don't  know  how  they  get  the  men  to  do  it." 

Captain  John  Kendrick  stabbed  viciously 
with  his  forefinger  at  a  picture  in  an  illus 
trated  paper. 

"Here's  a  wicked  thing  now,"  he  said. 
"Here's  a  medal  they've  struck  in  Germany  to 
commemorate  the  sinking  of  the  Lusitanla. 
Here's  a  photograph  of  both  sides  of  it.  On 
one  side,  you  see  the  great  ship  sinking,  loaded 
up  with  munitions  which  wasn't  there ;  but  not 
a  sign  of  the  women  and  children  that  was 
there.  On  the  other  side  you  see  the  passen 
gers  taking  their  tickets  from  Death  in  the 
New  York  booking  office.  Now  that's  a  fear 
ful  thing.  I  can  understand  'em  making  a 
mistake,  but  I  can't  understand  'em  wanting 
to  strike  a  medal  for  it." 

"Not  much  mistake  about  the  Lusitania" 
growled  Captain  Davidson. 

"No,  indeed.  That  was  only  my  argy- 
ment,"  replied  the  councilor.  "They're  a 
treacherous  lot.  It  was  a  fearful  thing  to  do 
a  deed  like  that.  My  son's  in  the  Cunard; 
and,  man  alive,  he  tells  me  it's  like  sinking  a 


THE  LUSITANIA  WAITS          143 

big  London  hotel.  There  was  ladies  in  eve 
ning  dress,  and  dancing  in  the  big  saloons 
every  night ;  and^  lifts  to  take  you  from  one 
deck  to  another;  and  shops  with  plate-glass 
windows,  and  smoking-rooms;  and  glass 
around  the  promenade  deck,  so  that  the  little 
children  could  play  there  in  bad  weather,  and 
the  ladies  lay  in  their  deck-chairs  and  sun 
themselves  like  peaches.  There  wasn't  a  sol 
dier  aboard,  and  some  of  the  women  was 
bringing  their  babies  to  see  their  Canadian 
daddies  in  England  for  the  first  time.  Why, 
man,  it  was  like  sinking  a  nursing  homel" 

"Do  you  suppose,  Captain  Kendrick,  that 
they  ever  caught  that  submarine?"  asked  Cap 
tain  Morgan.  They  were  old  friends,  but  al 
ways  punctilious  about  their  titles. 

"Ah,  now  I'll  tell  you  something  1  Hear 
that?" 

The  three  old  men  listened.  Through  the 
gusts  of  wind  that  battered  the  White  Horse 
they  heard  the  sound  of  heavy  floundering 
footsteps  passing  down  the  cobbled  street,  and 
a  hoarse  broken  voice  bellowing,  with  un 
canny  abandonment,  a  fragment  of  a  hymn : 

"While  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night, 
All  seated  on  the  ground." 


144  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"That's  poor  old  Jim  Hunt,"  said  Captain 
Morgan.  He  rose  and  drew  the  thick  red 
curtains  from  the  window  to  peer  out  into  the 
blackness. 

"Turn  the  lamp  down,"  said  the  councilor, 
"or  we'll  be  arrested  under  the  anti-aircraft 
laws." 

Davidson  turned  the  lamp  down  and  they 
all  looked  out  of  the  window.  They  saw  the 
figure  of  a  man,  black  against  the  glimmering 
water  of  the  harbor  below.  He  walked  with 
a  curious  floundering  gait  that  might  be  mis 
taken  for  the  effects  of  drink.  He  waved  his 
arms  over  his  head  like  a  windmill  and  bel 
lowed  his  hymn  as  he  went,  though  the  words 
were  now  indistinguishable  from  the  tumult 
of  wind  and  sea. 

Captain  Morgan  drew  the  curtains,  and  the 
three  sat  down  again  by  the  fire  without  turn 
ing  up  the  lamp.  The  firelight  played  on  the 
furrowed  and  bronzed  old  faces  and  revealed 
them  as  worthy  models  for  a  Rembrandt. 

"Poor  old  Jimmy  Hunt!"  said  Captain 
Kendrick.  "You  never  know  how  craziness 
is  going  to  take  people.  Jimmy  was  a  terror 
for  women  and  the  drink,  till  he  was  taken  off 
the  Albatross  by  that  German  submarine. 


THE  LUSITANIA  WAITS          145 

They  cracked  him  over  the  head  with  an  iron 
bolt,  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  because 
he  wouldn't  answer  no  questions.  He  hasn't 
touched  a  drop  since.  All  he  does  is  to  walk 
about  in  bad  weather,  singing  hymns  against 
the  wind.  But  there's  more  in  it  than  that." 

Captain  Kendrick  lighted  his  pipe  thought 
fully.  The  wind  rattled  the  windows.  Out 
side,  the  sign-board  creaked  and  whined  as 
it  swung. 

"A  man  like  Jim  Hunt  doesn't  go  crazy," 
he  continued,  "through  spending  a  night  in  a 
'IP  boat,  and  then  floating  about  for  a  bit. 
Jimmy  won't  talk  about  it  now;  won't  do  noth 
ing  but  sing  that  blasted  hymn;  but  this  is 
what  he  said  to  me  when  they  first  brought 
him  ashore.  They  said  he  was  raving  mad, 
on  account  of  his  experiences.  But  that  don't 
explain  what  his  experiences  were.  Follow 
me?  And  this  is  what  he  said.  '/  been 
down/  he  says,  half  singing  like.  'I  been 
down,  down,  in  the  bloody  submarine  that 
sank  the  Lusitanla.  And  what's  more'  he 
says,  'I  seen  'em!' 

"  'Seen  what?'  I  says,  humoring  him  like, 
and  I  gave  him  a  cigarette.  We  were  sitting 
close  together  in  his  mother's  kitchen.  'Ah!' 


146  WALKING  SHADOWS 

he  says,  calming  down  a  little,  and  speaking 
right  into  my  ear,  as  if  it  was  a  secret.  'It 
was  Christmas  Eve  the  time  they  took  me 
down.  We  could  hear  'em  singing  carols  on 
shore;  and  the  captain  didn't  like  it,  so  he  blew 
a  whistle,  and  the  Germans  jumped  to  close 
the  hatchways;  and  we  went  down,  down, 
down,  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

"  'I  saw  the  whole  ship/  he  says;  and  he 
described  it  to  me,  so  that  I  knew  he  wasn't 
raving  then.  'There  was  only  just  room  to 
stand  upright,'  he  says,  'and  overhead  there 
was  a  track  for  the  torpedo  carrier.  The  crew 
slept  in  hammocks  and  berths  along  the  wall  ; 
but  there  wasn't  room  for  more  than  half  to 
sleep  at  the  same  time.  They  took  me 
through  a  little  foot-hole,  with  an  air-tight 
door,  into  a  cabin. 

"  'The  captain  seemed  kind  of  excited  and 
showed  me  the  medal  he  got  for  sinking  the 
Lusitania;  and  I  asked  him  if  the  Kaiser  gave 
it  to  him  for  a  Christmas  present.  That  was 
when  he  and  another  officer  seemed  to  go  mad ; 
and  the  officer  gave  me  a  blow  on  the  head 
with  a  piece  of  iron. 

"  'They  say  I'm  crazy,'  he  says,  'but  it  was 
the  men  on  the  "U"  boat  that  went  crazy.  I 


THE  LUSITANIA  WAITS          147 

was  lying  where  I  fell,  with  the  blood  running 
down  my  face,  but  I  was  watching  them/  he 
says,  'and  I  saw  them  start  and  listen  like 
trapped  weasels.  At  first  I  thought  the  trawl 
ers  had  got  'em  in  a  net.  Then  I  heard  a 
funny  little  tapping  sound  all  round  the  hull 
of  the  submarine,  like  little  soft  hands  it  was, 
tapping,  tapping,  tapping. 

"  'The  captain  went  white  as  a  ghost,  and 
shouted  out  something  in  German,  like  as  if 
he  was  calling  "Who's  there?"  and  the  mate 
clapped  his  hand  over  his  mouth,  and  they 
both  stood  staring  at  one  another. 

"  'Then  there  was  a  sound  like  a  thin  little 
voice,  outside  the  ship,  mark  you,  and  sixty 
fathom  deep,  saying,  "Christmas  Eve,  the 
Waits,  sir!"  The  captain  tore  the  mate's 
hand  away  and  shouted  again,  like  he  was  ask 
ing  "Who's  there!"  and  wild  to  get  an  answer, 
too.  Then,  very  thin  and  clear,  the  little  voice 
came  a  second  time,  "The  Waits,  sir.  The 
Lusitania,  ladies!"  And  at  that  the  captain 
struck  the  mate  in  the  face  with  his  clenched 
fist.  He  had  the  medal  in  it  still  between  his 
fingers,  using  it  like  a  knuckle-duster.  Then 
he  called  to  the  men  like  a  madman,  all  in  Ger 
man,  but  I  knew  he  was  telling  'em  to  rise  to 


148  WALKING  SHADOWS 

the  surface,  by  the  way  they  were  trying  to 
obey  him. 

"  'The  submarine  never  budged  for  all  that 
they  could  do;  and  while  they  were  running 
up  and  down  and  squealing  out  to  one  another, 
there  was  a  kind  of  low  sweet  sound  all  round 
the  hull,  like  a  thousand  voices  all  singing 
together  in  the  sea: 

"Fear  not,  said  he,  for  mighty  dread 

Had  seized  their  troubled  mind, 
Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  I  bring 
To  you  and  all  mankind" 

"  'Then  the  tapping  began  again,  but  it  was 
much  louder  now;  and  it  seemed  as  if  hun 
dreds  of  drowned  hands  were  feeling  the  hull 
and  loosening  bolts  and  pulling  at  hatchways; 
and — all  at  once — a  trickle  of  water  came 
splashing  down  into  the  cabin.  The  captain 
dropped  his  medal.  It  rolled  up  to  my  hand 
and  I  saw  there  was  blood  on  it.  He  screamed 
at  the  men,  and  they  pulled  out  their  life- 
saving  apparatus,  a  kind  of  air-tank  which 
they  strapped  on  their  backs,  with  tubes  to 
rubber  masks  for  clapping  over  their  mouths 
and  noses.  I  watched  'em  doing  it,  and  man 
aged  to  do  the  same.  They  were  too  busy  to 


THE  LUSITANIA  WAITS          149 

take  any  notice  of  me.  Then  they  pulled  a 
lever  and  tumbled  out  through  a  hole,  and  I 
followed  'em  blindly.  Something  grabbed 
me  when  I  got  outside  and  held  me  for  a 
minute.  Then  I  saw  'em,  Captain  Kendrick, 
I  saw  'em,  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  'em,  in 
a  shiny  light,  and  sixty  fathom  down  under 
the  dark  sea — they  were  all  waiting  there,  men 
and  women  and  poor  little  babies  with  hair 
like  sunshine.  .  .  . 

"  'And  the  men  were  smiling  at  the  Ger 
mans  in  a  friendly  way,  and  unstrapping  the 
air-tanks  from  their  backs,  and  saying,  "Won't 
you  come  and  join  us?  It's  Christmas  Eve, 
you  know." 

"  Then  whatever  it  was  that  held  me  let  me 
go,  and  I  shot  up  and  knew  nothing  till  I 
found  myself  in  Jack  Simmonds's  drifter,  and 
they  told  me  I  was  crazy.' ' 

Captain  Kendrick  filled  his  pipe.  A  great 
gust  struck  the  old  inn  again  and  again  till  all 
the  timbers  trembled.  The  floundering  step 
passed  once  more,  and  the  hoarse  voice  bel 
lowed  away  in  the  darkness  against  the  bellow 
ing  sea: 

A  Savior  which  is  Christ  the  Lord, 
And  this  shall  be  the  sign. 


150  WALKING  SHADOWS 

Captain  Davidson  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Poor  old  Jim  Hunt!"  he  said.  "There's 
not  much  Christ  about  any  of  this  war.'7 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that  neither,"  said  Cap 
tain  Morgan.  "Macpherson  said  a  striking 
thing  to  me  the  other  day.  'Seems  to  me,'  he 
says,  'there's  a  good  many  nowadays  that  are 
touching  the  iron  nails.' ' 

He  rose  and  drew  the  curtains  from  the 
window  again. 

"The  sea's  rattling  hollow,"  he  said; 
"there'll  be  rain  before  morning." 

"Well,  I  must  be  going,"  said  Captain 
Davidson.  "I  want  to  see  the  naval  secretary 
down  at  the  base." 

"About  what?" 

"Why,  I'm  not  too  old  for  a  trawler,  am  I?" 

"My  missus  won't  like  it,  but  I'll  come  with 
you,"  said  Captain  Morgan;  and  they  went 
through  the  door  together,  lowering  their 
heads  against  the  wind. 

"Hold  on!  I'm  coming,  too,"  said  Captain 
Kendrick;  and  he  followed  them,  buttoning 
up  his  coat. 


VI 

THE  LOG  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR 

WE  were  sitting  in  the  porch  of  a  low 
white  bungalow  with  masses  of 
purple  bougainvillea  embowering 
its  eaves.  A  ruby-throated  humming-bird, 
with  green  wings,  flickered  around  it.  The 
tall  palms  and  the  sea  were  whispering  to 
gether.  Over  the  water,  the  West  was  begin 
ning  to  fill  with  that  Californian  sunset  which 
is  the  most  mysterious  in  the  world,  for  one  is 
conscious  that  it  is  the  fringe  of  what  Euro 
peans  call  the  East,  and  that,  looking  west 
ward  across  the  Pacific,  our  faces  are  turned 
towards  the  dusky  myriads  of  Asia.  All 
along  the  Californian  coast  there  is  a  tang  of 
incense  in  the  air,  as  befits  that  silent  orchard 
of  the  gods  where  dawn  and  sunset  meet  and 
intermingle;  and,  though  it  is  probably  caused 
by  some  gardener,  burning  the  dead  leaves  of 
the  eucalyptus  trees,  one  might  well  believe 
that  one  breathed  the  scent  of  the  joss-sticks, 

151 


152  WALKING  SHADOWS 

wafted  across  the  Pacific,  from  the  land  of 
paper  lanterns. 

A  Japanese  servant,  in  a  white  duck  suit, 
marched  like  a  ghostly  little  soldier  across  the 
lawn.  The  great  hills  behind  us  quietly 
turned  to  amethysts.  The  lights  of  Los  An 
geles  ten  miles  away  to  the  north  began  to 
spring  out  like  stars  in  that  amazing  air  be 
loved  of  the  astronomer;  and  the  evening  star 
itself,  over  the  huge  slow  breakers  crumbling 
into  lilac-colored  foam,  looked  bright  enough 
to  be  a  companion  of  the  city  lights. 

"I  should  like  to  show  you  the  log  of  the 
Evening  Star"  said  my  visitor,  who  was  none 
other  than  Moreton  Fitch,  president  of  the 
insurance  company  of  San  Francisco.  "I 
think  it  may  interest  you  as  evidence  that  our 
business  is  not  without  its  touches  of  romance. 
I  don't  mean  what  you  mean,"  he  added  cheer 
fully,  as  I  looked  up  smiling.  "The  Evening 
Star  was  a  schooner  running  between  San 
Francisco  and  Tahiti  and  various  other  places 
in  the  South  Seas.  She  was  insured  in  our 
company.  One  April,  she  was  reported  over 
due.  After  a  search  had  been  made,  she  was 
posted  as  lost  in  the  maritime  exchanges. 
There  was  no  clue  to  what  had  happened,  and 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR     153 

we  paid  the  insurance  money,  believing  that 
she  had  foundered  with  all  hands. 

"Two  months  later,  we  got  word  from  Ta 
hiti  that  the  Evening  Star  had  been  found 
drifting  about  in  a  dead  calm,  with  all  sails 
set,  but  not  a  soul  aboard.  Everything  was  in 
perfect  order,  except  that  the  ship's  cat  was 
lying  dead  in  the  bows,  baked  to  a  bit  of  sea 
weed  by  the  sun.  Otherwise,  there  wasn't  the 
slightest  trace  of  any  trouble.  The  tables  be 
low  were  laid  for  a  meal  and  there  was  plenty 
of  water  aboard." 

"Were  any  of  the  boats  missing?" 

"No.  She  carried  only  three  boats  and  all 
were  there.  When  she  was  discovered,  two  of 
the  boats  were  on  deck  as  usual;  and  the  third 
was  towing  astern.  None  of  the  men  has  been 
heard  of  from  that  day  to  this.  The  amazing 
part  of  it  was  not  only  the  absence  of  anything 
that  would  account  for  the  disappearance  of 
the  crew,  but  the  clear  evidence  that  they  had 
been  intending  to  stay,  in  the  fact  that  the 
tables  were  laid  for  a  meal,  and  then  aban 
doned.  Besides,  where  had  they  gone,  and 
how?  There  are  no  magic  carpets,  even  in 
the  South  Seas. 

"The  best  brains  of  our  Company  puzzled 


154  WALKING  SHADOWS 

over  the  mystery  for  a  year  and  more;  but  at 
the  end  of  the  time  nothing  had  turned  up  and 
we  had  to  come  out  by  the  same  door  wherein 
we  went.  No  theory,  even,  seemed  to  fit  the 
case  at  all;  and,  in  most  mysteries,  there  is 
room  for  a  hundred  theories.  There  were 
twelve  persons  aboard,  and  we  investigated 
the  history  of  them  all.  There  were  three 
American  seamen,  all  of  the  domesticated 
kind,  with  respectable  old  mothers  in  gold- 
rimmed  spectacles  at  home.  There  were  five 
Kanakas  of  the  mildest  type,  as  easy  to  handle 
as  an  infant  school.  There  was  a  Japanese 
cook,  who  was  something  of  an  artist.  He 
used  to  spend  his  spare  time  in  painting  things 
to  palm  off  on  the  unsuspecting  connoisseur  as 
the  work  of  an  obscure  pupil  of  Hokusai, 
which  I  suppose  he  might  have  been  in  a  way. 
I  am  told  he  was  scrupulously  careful  never 
to  tell  a  direct  lie  about  it. 

"Then  there  was  Harper,  the  mate,  rather 
an  interesting  young  fellow,  with  the  wander 
lust.  He  had  been  pretty  well  educated. 
I  believe  he  had  spent  a  year  or  two  at  one 
of  the  Californian  colleges.  Altogether, 
about  the  most  harmless  kind  of  a  ship's  fam 
ily  that  you  could  pick  up  anywhere  between 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR     155 

the  Golden  Gate  and  the  Baltic.  Then  there 
was  Captain  Burgess,  who  was  the  most  do 
mesticated  of  them  all,  for  he  had  his  wife 
with  him  on  this  voyage.  They  had  been  mar 
ried  only  about  three  months.  She  was  the 
widow  of  the  former  captain  of  the  Evening 
Star,  a  fellow  named  Dayrell;  and  she  had 
often  been  on  the  ship  before.  In  fact,  they 
were  all  old  friends  of  the  ship.  Except  one 
or  two  of  the  Kanakas,  all  the  men  had  sailed 
on  the  Evening  Star  for  something  like  two 
years  under  Captain  Dayrell.  Burgess  him 
self  had  been  his  mate.  Dayrell  had  been 
dead  only  about  six  months;  and  the  only 
criticism  we  ever  heard  against  anybody 
aboard  was  made  by  some  of  Dayrell's  rela 
tives,  who  thought  the  widow  might  have 
waited  more  than  three  months  before  marry 
ing  the  newly  promoted  Burgess.  They  sug 
gested,  of  course,  that  there  must  have  been 
something  between  them  before  Dayrell  was 
out  of  the  way.  But  I  hardly  believed  it.  In 
any  case,  it  threw  no  light  on  the  mystery." 
"What  sort  of  a  man  was  Burgess?" 
"Big  burly  fellow  with  a  fat  white  face  and 
curious  little  eyes,  like  huckleberries  in  a  lump 
of  dough.  He  was  very  silent  and  inclined 


156  WALKING  SHADOWS 

to  be  religious.  He  used  to  read  Emerson 
and  Carlyle,  quite  an  unusual  sort  of  sea-cap 
tain.  There  was  a  Sartor  Resartus  in  the 
cabin  with  a  lot  of  the  queerest  passages 
marked  in  pencil.  What  can  you  make  of  it?" 

"Nothing  at  all,  except  that  there  was  a 
woman  aboard.  What  was  she  like?" 

"She  was  one  of  our  special  Californian 
mixtures,  touch  of  Italian,  touch  of  Irish, 
touch  of  American,  but  Italian  predominated, 
I  think.  She  was  a  good  deal  younger  than 
Burgess;  and  one  of  the  clerks  in  our  office 
who  had  seen  her  described  her  as  a  'peach,' 
which,  as  you  know,  means  a  pretty  woman,  or 
if  you  prefer  the  description  of  her  own  lady 
friends,  Vurry  attractive.' ' 

"She  had  the  dusky  Italian  beauty,  black 
hair  and  eyes  like  black  diamonds,  but  her 
face  was  very  pale,  the  kind  of  pallor  that 
makes  you  think  of  magnolia  blossoms  at  dusk. 
She  was  obviously  fond  of  bright  colors,  tawny 
reds  and  yellows,  but  they  suited  her.  If  I 
had  to  give  you  my  impression  of  her  in  a 
single  word,  I  should  say  that  she  looked  like 
a  gipsy.  You  know  the  song,  'Down  the 
World  with  Marna,7  don't  you?  Well,  I 
could  imagine  a  romantic  vagabond  singing  it 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR     157 

about  her.  By  the  by,  she  had  rather  a  fine 
voice  herself.  Used  to  sing  sentimental  songs 
to  Dayrell  and  his  friends  in  'Frisco,  'Love's 
Old  Sweet  Song'  and  that  sort  of  stuff.  Ap 
parently,  they  took  it  very  seriously.  Several 
of  them  told  me  that  if  she  had  been  trained — 
well,  you  know  the  old  story — every  prima 
donna  would  have  had  to  retire  from  business. 
I  fancy  they  were  all  a  little  in  love  with  her. 
The  curious  thing  was  that  after  Dayrell's 
death  she  gave  up  her  singing  altogether. 
Now,  I  think  I  have  told  you  all  the  facts 
about  the  ship's  company." 

"Didn't  you  say  there  was  a  log  you  wanted 
to  show  me?" 

"There  were  no  ship's  papers  of  any  kind, 
and  no  log  was  found  on  the  derelict;  but,  a 
week  or  two  ago,  we  had  a  visit  from  the 
brother  of  the  Japanese  cook,  who  made  us  all 
feel  like  fifteen  cents  before  the  wisdom  of  the 
East.  I  have  to  go  over  and  see  him  to-mor 
row  afternoon.  He  is  a  fisherman,  lives  on 
the  coast,  not  far  from  here.  I'd  like  you  to 
see  what  I  call  the  log  of  the  Evening  Star.  I 
won't  say  any  more  about  it  now.  It  isn't 
quite  worked  out  yet;  but  it  looks  as  if  it's 
going  to  be  interesting.  Will  you  come — to- 


158  WALKING  SHADOWS 

morrow  afternoon?  I'll  call  for  you  at  a 
quarter  after  two.  It  won't  take  us  long  in 
the  automobile.  This  is  where  he  lives,  see?" 

I  switched  on  the  electric  light  in  the  porch 
while  Fitch  spread  out  a  road  map,  and 
pointed  to  our  destination  of  the  morrow. 
The  Californian  night  comes  quickly,  and  the 
tree-toads  that  make  it  musical  were  chirrup 
ing  and  purring  all  around  us  as  we  walked 
through  the  palms  and  the  red-tasseled  pepper 
trees  to  his  car.  Somewhere  among  the  fune 
real  clouds  and  poplarlike  spires  of  the  euca 
lyptus,  a  mocking-bird  began  to  whistle  one  of 
his  many  parts,  and  a  delicious  whiff  of  orange 
blossom  blew  on  the  cool  night  wind  across 
a  ranch  of  a  thousand  acres,  mostly  in  fruit, 
but  with  a  few  trees  yet  in  blossom,  on  the  road 
to  the  Sunset  Inn. 

I  watched  his  red  rear  lamp  dwindling 
down  that  well-oiled  road,  and  let  the  Eve 
ning  Star  go  with  it  until  the  morrow,  for  I 
could  make  little  of  his  yarn,  except  that  Fitch 
was  not  a  man  to  get  excited  over  trifles. 

II 

Promptly  at  the  time  appointed  on  the  fol 
lowing  afternoon,  Fitch  called  for  me ;  and  a 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR     159 

minute  later  we  were  gliding  through  orange 
groves  along-  one  of  those  broad  smooth  roads 
that  amaze  the  European  whose  impressions 
of  California  have  been  obtained  from  tales 
of  the  forty-niners.  The  keen  scent  of  the 
orange  blossom  yielded  to  a  tang  of  new  in 
cense,  as  we  turned  into  the  Sunset  Boulevard 
and  ran  down  the  long  vista  of  tall  eucalyptus 
trees  that  stand  out  so  darkly  and  distinctly 
against  the  lilac-colored  ranges  of  the  Sierra 
Madre  in  the  distance,  and  remind  one  of  the 
poplar-bordered  roads  of  France.  Once  we 
passed  a  swarthy  cluster  of  Mexicans  under  a 
wayside  palm.  Big  fragments,  gnawed  half- 
moons,  of  the  blood-red  black-pipped  water 
melon  they  had  been  eating,  gleamed  on  the 
dark  oiled  surface  of  the  road,  as  a  splash  of 
the  sunset  is  reflected  in  a  dark  river.  Then 
we  ran  along  the  coast  for  a  little  way  between 
the  palms  and  the  low  white-pillared  houses, 
all  crimson  poinsettias  and  marble,  that  looked 
as  if  they  were  meant  for  the  gods  and  god 
desses  of  Greece,  but  were  only  the  homes  of 
a  few  score  lotus-eating  millionaires.  In  an 
other  minute,  we  had  turned  off  the  good 
highway,  and  were  running  along  a  narrow 
sandy  road.  On  one  side,  rising  from  the 


160  WALKING  SHADOWS 

road,  were  great  desert  hills,  covered  with 
gray-green  sage-brush,  tinged  at  the  tips  with 
rusty  brown;  and,  on  the  other,  there  was  a 
strip  of  sandy  beach  where  the  big  slow  break 
ers  crumbled,  and  the  unmolested  pelicans 
waddled  and  brooded  like  goblin  sentries. 

In  three  minutes  more,  we  sighted  a  cluster 
of  tiny  wooden  houses  ahead  of  us,  and  pulled 
up  on  the  outskirts  of  a  Japanese  fishing  vil 
lage,  built  along  the  fringe  of  the  beach  it 
self.  It  was  a  single  miniature  street,  nest 
ling  under  the  hill  on  one  side  of  the  narrow 
road  and  built  along  the  sand  on  the  other. 
Japanese  signs  stood  over  quaint  little  stores, 
with  here  and  there  a  curious  tinge  of  Ameri 
canism.  RICE  CAKES  AND  CANDIES  were  ad 
vertised  by  one  black-haired  and  boyish-look 
ing  gentleman  who  sat  at  the  door  of  his  hut, 
playing  with  three  brown  children,  one  of 
whom  squinted  at  us  gleefully  with  bright 
sloe-black  eyes.  Every  tiny  house,  even  when 
it  stood  on  the  beach,  had  its  own  festoon 
of  flowers.  Bare-legged,  almond-eyed  fisher 
men  sat  before  them,  mending  their  nets. 
Wistaria  drooped  from  the  jutting  eaves;  and 
— perhaps  only  the  Japanese  could  explain  the 
miracle — tall  and  well-nourished  red  gera- 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR     161 

niums  rose,  out  of  the  salt  sea-sand  apparently, 
around  their  doors.  A  few  had  foregone 
their  miracles  and  were  content  with  window 
boxes,  but  all  were  in  blossom.  In  the  center 
of  the  village,  on  the  seaward  side,  there  was 
a  miniature  mission  house.  A  beautifully 
shaped  bell  swung  over  the  roof;  and  there 
was  a  miniature  notice-board  at  the  door. 
The  announcements  upon  it  were  in  Japanese, 
but  it  looked  as  if  East  and  West  had  certainly 
met,  and  kissed  each  other  there.  Some  of 
the  huts  had  oblong  letter  boxes  of  gray  tin, 
perched  on  stumps  of  bamboo  fishing  poles,  in 
front  of  their  doors.  It  is  a  common  device 
to  help  the  postman  in  country  places  where 
you  sometimes  see  a  letter-box  on  a  broomstick 
standing  half  a  mile  from  the  owner's  house. 
But  here,  they  looked  curiously  Japanese,  per 
haps  because  of  the  names  inscribed  upon 
them,  or  through  some  trick  of  arrangement, 
for  a  Japanese  hand  no  sooner  touches  a  dead 
staff  than  it  breaks  into  cherry  blossom.  We 
stopped  before  one  that  bore  the  name  of  Y. 
Kato.  His  unpainted  wooden  shack  was  the 
most  Japanese  of  all  in  appearance;  for  the 
yellow  placard  underneath  the  window  adver 
tising  SWEET  CAPORAL  was  balanced  by  a  sin- 


162  WALKING  SHADOWS 

gle  tall  pole,  planted  in  the  sand  a  few  feet  to 
the  right,  and  lifting  a  beautiful  little  bird- 
house  high  above  the  roof. 

Moreton  Fitch  knocked  at  the  door,  which 
was  opened  at  once  by  a  dainty  creature,  a 
piece  of  animated  porcelain  four  feet  high, 
with  a  black-eyed  baby  on  her  back;  and  we 
were  ushered  with  smiles  into  a  very  bare 
living-room  to  be  greeted  by  the  polished  ma 
hogany  countenance  of  Kato  himself  and  the 
shell-spectacled  intellectual  pallor  of  Howard 
Knight,  professor  in  the  University  of  Cali 
fornia. 

"Amazing,  amazing,  perfectly  amazing," 
said  Knight,  who  was  wearing  two  elderly  tea- 
roses  in  his  cheeks  now  from  excitement.  "I 
have  just  finished  it.  Sit  down  and  listen." 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  Fitch.  "I  want  our 
friend  here  to  see  the  original  log  of  the  Eve 
ning  Star" 

"Of  course,"  said  Knight,  "a  human  docu 
ment  of  the  utmost  value."  Then,  to  my  sur 
prise,  he  took  me  by  the  arm  and  led  me  in 
front  of  a  kakemono,  which  was  the  only  deco 
ration  on  the  walls  of  the  room. 

"This  is  what  Mr.  Fitch  calls  the  log  of  the 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR     163 

Evening  Star/'  he  said.  "It  was  found  among 
the  effects  of  Mr.  Kato's  brother  on  the 
schooner;  and,  fortunately,  it  was  claimed  by 
Mr.  Kato  himself.  Take  it  to  the  light  and 
examine  it." 

I  took  it  to  the  window  and  looked  at  it  with 
curiosity,  though  I  did  not  quite  see  its  bear 
ing  on  the  mystery  of  the  Evening  Star.  It 
was  a  fine  piece  of  work,  one  of  those  weird 
night-pictures  in  which  the  Japanese  are  mas 
ters,  for  they  know  how  to  give  you  the  single 
point  of  light  that  tells  you  of  the  unseen  life 
around  the  lamp  of  the  household  or  the  tem 
ple.  This  was  a  picture  of  a  little  dark  house, 
with  jutting  eaves,  and  a  tiny  rose  light  in  one 
window,  overlooking  the  sea.  At  the  brink  of 
the  sea  rose  a  ghostly  figure  that  might  only 
be  a  drift  of  mist,  for  the  curve  of  the  vague 
body  suggested  that  the  off-shore  wind  was 
blowing  it  out  to  sea,  while  the  great  gleaming 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  lamp,  and  the  shadowy 
arms  outstretched  towards  it  in  hopeless  long 
ing.  Sea  and  ghost  and  house  were  suggested 
in  a  very  few  strokes  of  the  brush.  All  the 
rest,  the  peace  and  the  tragic  desire  and  a 
thousand  other  suggestions,  according  to  the 


164  WALKING  SHADOWS 

mood  of  the  beholder,  were  concentrated  into 
that  single  pinpoint  of  warm  light  in  the  win 
dow. 

"Turn  it  over,"  said  Fitch. 

I  obeyed  him,  and  saw  that  the  whole  back 
of  the  kakemono,  which  measured  about  four 
feet  by  two,  was  covered  with  a  fine  scrawl  of 
Japanese  characters  in  purple  copying-pencil. 
I  had  overlooked  it  at  first,  or  accepted  it,  with 
the  eye  of  ignorance,  as  a  mere  piece  of  Orien 
tal  decoration. 

"That  is  what  we  all  did,"  said  Fitch.  "We 
all  overlooked  the  simple  fact  that  Japanese 
words  have  a  meaning.  We  didn't  trouble 
about  it — you  know  how  vaguely  one's  eye 
travels  over  a  three-foot  sign  on  a  Japanese 
tea-house — we  didn't  even  think  about  it  till 
Mr.  Kato  turned  up  in  our  office  a  week  or  two 
ago.  You  can't  read  it.  Nor  can  I.  But  we 
got  Mr.  Knight  here  to  handle  it  for  us." 

"It  turns  out  to  be  a  message  from  Harper," 
said  Knight.  "Apparently,  he  was  lying 
helpless  in  his  berth,  and  told  the  Japanese  to 
write  it  down.  A  few  sentences  here  and 
there  are  unintelligible,  owing  to  the  refrac 
tion  of  the  Oriental  mind.  Fortunately,  it  is 
Harper's  own  message.  I  have  made  two 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR     165 

versions,  one  a  perfectly  literal  one  which  re 
quires  a  certain  amount  of  re-translation. 
The  other  is  an  attempt  to  give  as  nearly  as 
possible  what  Harper  himself  dictated.  This 
is  the  version  which  I  had  better  read  to  you 
now.  The  original  has  various  repetitions, 
and  shows  that  Harper's  mind  occasionally 
wandered,  for  he  goes  into  trivial  detail  some 
times.  He  seems  to  have  been  possessed,  how 
ever,  with  the  idea  of  getting  his  account 
through  to  the  owners;  and,  whenever  he  got 
an  opportunity,  he  made  the  Japanese  take  up 
his  pencil  and  write,  so  that  we  have  a  very 
full  account." 

Knight  took  out  a  note-book,  adjusted  his 
glasses,  and  began  to  read,  while  the  ghostly 
original  fluttered  in  my  hand,  as  the  night- 
wind  blew  from  the  sea. 

"A  terrible  thing  has  happened,  and  I  think 
it  my  duty  to  write  this,  in  the  hope  that  it  may 
fall  into  the  hands  of  friends  at  home.  I  am 
not  likely  to  live  another  twenty-four  hours. 
The  first  hint  that  I  had  of  anything  wrong 
was  on  the  night  of  March  the  fifteenth,  when 
Mrs.  Burgess  came  up  to  me  on  deck,  looking 
very  worried,  and  said,  'Mr.  Harper,  I  am  in 
great  trouble.  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question, 


166  WALKING  SHADOWS 

and  I  want  you  to  give  me  an  honest  answer.' 
She  looked  round  nervously,  and  her  hands 
were  fidgeting  with  her  handkerchief,  as  if  she 
were  frightened  to  death.  'Whatever  your 
answer  may  be/  she  said,  'you'll  not  mention 
what  I've  said  to  you.'  I  promised  her.  She 
laid  her  hand  on  my  arm  and  said  with  the 
most  piteous  look  in  her  face  I  have  ever  seen, 
*I  have  no  other  friends  to  go  to,  and  I  want 
you  to  tell  me.  Mr.  Harper,  is  my  husband 
sane?' 

"I  had  never  doubted  the  sanity  of  Burgess 
till  that  moment.  But  there  was  something  in 
the  dreadfulness  of  that  question,  from  a 
woman  who  had  only  been  married  a  few 
months,  that  seemed  like  a  door  opening  into 
the  bottomless  pit. 

"It  seemed  to  explain  many  things  that 
hadn't  occurred  to  me  before.  I  asked  her 
what  she  meant  and  she  told  me  that  last  night 
Burgess  had  come  into  the  cabin  and  waked 
her  up.  His  eyes  were  starting  out  of  his 
head,  and  he  tqld  her  that  he  had  seen  Captain 
Dayrell  walking  on  deck.  She  told  him  it 
was  nothing  but  imagination;  and  he  laid  his 
head  on  his  arms  and  sobbed  like  a  child.  He 
said  he  thought  it  was  one  of  the  deckhands 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR     167 

that  had  just  come  out  of  the  foc'sle,  but  all 
the  men  were  short  and  smallish,  and  this  was 
a  big  burly  figure.  It  went  ahead  of  him  like 
his  own  shadow,  and  disappeared  in  the  bows. 
But  he  knew  it  was  Dayrell,  and  there  was  a 
curse  on  him.  To-night,  she  said,  half  an 
hour  ago,  Burgess  had  come  down  to  her, 
taken  her  by  the  throat,  and  sworn  he  would 
kill  her  if  she  didn't  confess  that  Dayrell  was 
still  alive.  She  told  him  he  must  be  crazy. 
'My  mind  may  be  going,'  he  said,  'but  you 
sha'n't  kill  my  soul.'  And  he  called  her  a 
name  which  she  didn't  repeat,  but  began  to 
cry  when  she  remembered  it.  He  said  he  had 
seen  Dayrell  standing  in  the  bows  with  the 
light  of  the  moon  full  on  his  face,  and  he 
looked  so  brave  and  upright  that  he  knew  he 
must  have  been  bitterly  wronged.  He  looked 
like  a  soldier  facing  the  enemy,  he  said. 

"While  she  was  telling  me  this,  she  was 
looking  around  her  in  a  very  nervous  kind  of 
way,  and  we  both  heard  some  one  coming  up 
behind  us  very  quietly.  We  turned  round, 
and  there — as  God  lives — stood  the  living 
image  of  Captain  Dayrell  looking  at  us,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  mast.  Mrs.  Burgess  gave  a 
shriek  that  paralyzed  me  for  the  moment,  then 


168  WALKING  SHADOWS 

she  ran  like  a  wild  thing  into  the  bows,  and 
before  any  one  could  stop  her,  she  climbed 
up  and  threw  herself  overboard.  Evans  and 
Barron  were  only  a  few  yards  away  from  her 
when  she  did  it,  and  they  both  went  overboard 
after  her  immediately,  one  of  them  throwing 
a  life-belt  over  ahead  of  him  as  he  went. 
They  were  both  good  swimmers,  and  as  the 
moon  was  bright,  I  thought  we  had  only  to 
launch  a  boat  to  pick  them  all  up.  I  shouted 
to  the  Kanakas,  and  they  all  came  up  running. 
Two  of  the  men  and  myself  got  into  one  of  the 
starboard  boats,  and  we  were  within  three  feet 
of  the  water  when  I  heard  the  crack  of  a  re 
volver  from  somewhere  in  the  bows  of  the 
Evening  Star.  The  men  who  were  lowering 
away  let  us  down  with  a  rush  that  nearly  cap 
sized  us.  There  were  four  more  shots  while 
we  were  getting  our  oars  out.  I  called  to  the 
men  on  deck,  asking  them  who  was  shooting, 
but  got  no  reply.  I  believe  they  were  panic- 
stricken  and  had  bolted  into  cover.  We 
pulled  round  the  bows,  and  could  see  nothing. 
There  was  not  a  sign  of  the  woman  or  the  two 
men  in  the  water. 

"We  could  make  nobody  hear  us  on  the 
ship,  and  all  this  while  we  had  seen  nothing 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR     169 

of  Captain  Burgess.  It  must  have  been 
nearly  an  hour  before  we  gave  up  our  search, 
and  tried  to  get  aboard  again.  We  were  still 
unable  to  get  any  reply  from  the  ship,  and  we 
were  about  to  try  to  climb  on  board  by  the 
boat's  falls.  The  men  were  backing  her  in, 
stern  first,  and  we  were  about  ten  yards  away 
from  the  ship  when  the  figure  of  Captain  Day- 
rell  appeared  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  Eve 
ning  Star.  He  stood  there  against  the  moon 
light,  with  his  face  in  shadow;  but  we  all  of 
us  recognized  him,  and  I  heard  the  teeth  of 
the  Kanakas  chattering.  They  had  stopped 
backing,  and  we  all  stared  at  one  another. 
Then,  as  casually  as  if  it  were  a  joke,  Dayrell 
stretched  out  his  arm,  and  I  saw  the  moon 
light  glint  on  his  revolver.  He  fired  at  us, 
deliberately,  as  if  he  were  shooting  at  clay 
pigeons.  I  felt  the  wind  of  the  first  shot  going 
past  my  head,  and  the  two  men  at  once  began 
to  pull  hard  to  get  out  of  range.  The  second 
shot  missed  also.  At  the  third  shot,  he  got  the 
man  in  the  bows  full  in  the  face.  He  fell 
over  backwards,  and  lay  there  in  the  bottom 
of  the  boat.  He  must  have  been  killed  instan 
taneously.  At  the  fourth  shot,  I  felt  a  sting 
ing  pain  on  the  left  side  of  my  body,  but 


iyo  WALKING  SHADOWS 

hardly  realized  I  had  been  wounded  at  the 
moment.  A  cloud  passed  over  the  moon  just 
then,  and  the  way  we  had  got  on  the  boat  had 
carried  us  too  far  for  Dayrell  to  aim  very 
accurately,  so  that  I  was  able  to  get  to  the  oars 
and  pull  out  of  range.  The  other  man  must 
have  been  wounded  also,  for  he  was  lying  in 
the  bottom  of  the  boat  groaning,  but  I  do  not 
remember  seeing  him  hit.  I  managed  to  pull 
fifty  yards  or  so,  and  then  fainted,  for  I  was 
bleeding  very  badly. 

"When  I  recovered  consciousness  I  found 
that  the  bleeding  had  stopped,  and  I  was  able 
to  look  at  the  two  men.  Both  of  them  were 
dead  and  quite  cold,  so  that  I  must  have  been 
unconscious  for  some  time. 

"The  Evening  Star  was  about  a  hundred 
yards  away,  in  the  full  light  of  the  moon,  but 
I  could  see  nobody  on  deck.  I  sat  watching 
her  till  daybreak,  wondering  what  I  should 
do,  for  there  was  no  water  or  food  in  the  boat, 
and  I  was  unarmed.  Unless  Captain  Burgess 
and  the  other  men  aboard  could  disarm  Day 
rell,  I  was  quite  helpless.  Perhaps  my  wound 
had  dulled  my  wits ;  for  I  was  unable  to  think 
out  any  plan,  and  I  sat  there  aimlessly  for 
more  than  an  hour. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR     171 

"It  was  broad  daylight,  and  I  had  drifted 
within  fifty  yards  of  the  ship,  when,  to  my 
surprise,  Captain  Burgess  appeared  on  deck 
and  hailed  me.  'All  right,  Harper/  he  said, 
'come  aboard.' 

"I  was  able  to  scull  the  boat  alongside,  and 
Captain  Burgess  got  down  into  her  without  a 
word  and  helped  me  aboard.  He  took  me 
down  to  my  berth,  with  his  arm  around  me, 
for  I  almost  collapsed  again  with  the  effort, 
and  he  brought  me  some  brandy.  As  soon  as 
I  could  speak,  I  asked  him  what  it  all  meant, 
and  he  said,  'The  ship  is  his,  Harper;  we've 
got  to  give  it  up  to  him.  That's  what  it 
means.  I  am  not  afraid  of  him  by  daylight, 
but  what  we  shall  do  to-night,  God  only 
knows.'  Then,  just  as  Mrs.  Burgess  had  told 
me,  he  put  his  head  down  on  his  arms,  and 
began  to  sob  like  a  child. 

"  'Where  are  the  other  men?'  I  asked  him. 

"  'There's  only  you  and  I  and  Kato,'  he  said, 
'to  face  it  out  aboard  this  ship.' 

"With  that,  he  got  up  and  left  me,  saying 
that  he  would  send  Kato  to  me  with  some  food, 
if  I  thought  I  could  eat.  But  I  knew  by  this 
time  that  I  was  a  dying  man. 

"There  was  only  one  thing  I  had  to  do,  and 


172  WALKING  SHADOWS 

that  was  to  try  to  get  this  account  written,  and 
hide  it  somehow  in  the  hope  of  some  one  find 
ing  it  later,  for  I  felt  sure  that  neither  Burgess 
nor  myself  would  live  to  tell  it.  There  was 
no  paper  in  my  berth,  and  it  was  Kato  that, 
thought  of  writing  it  down  in  this  way. 

"About  an  hour  later.  Burgess  has  just 
been  down  to  see  me.  He  said  that  he  had 
buried  the  two  men  who  were  shot  in  the  boat. 
I  wanted  to  ask  him  some  questions,  but  he 
became  so  excited,  it  seemed  useless.  Neither 
he  nor  Kato  seemed  to  have  any  idea  where 
Dayrell  was  hiding.  Kato  believes,  in  fact, 
in  ghosts,  so  that  it  is  no  use  questioning  him. 

"I  must  have  lost  consciousness  or  slept  very 
heavily  since  the  above  was  written,  for  I  re 
membered  nothing  more  till  nightfall,  when 
I  woke  up  in  the  pitch  darkness.  Kato  was 
sitting  by  me.  He  lit  the  lamp,  and  gave  me 
another  drink  of  brandy.  The  ship  was  dead 
still,  but  I  felt  that  something  had  gone  wrong 
again. 

"I  do  not  know  whether  my  own  mind  is 
going,  but  we  have  just  heard  the  voice  of  Mrs. 
Burgess  singing  one  of  those  sentimental  songs 
that  Captain  Dayrell  used  to  be  so  fond  of.  It 
seemed  to  be  down  in  the  cabin,  and  when  she 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR     173 

came  to  the  end  of  it,  I  heard  Captain  Day- 
rell's  voice  calling  out,  'EncoreJ  Encore/' 
just  as  he  used  to  do.  Then  I  heard  some  one 
running  down  the  deck  like  mad,  and  Captain 
Burgess  came  tumbling  down  to  us  with  the 
whites  of  his  eyes  showing.  'Did  you  hear 
it?'  he  said.  'Harper,  you'll  admit  you  heard 
it.  Don't  tell  me  I'm  mad.  They're  in  the 
cabin  together  now.  Come  and  look  at  them.' 
Then  he  looked  at  me  with  a  curious,  cunning 
look,  and  said,  'No,  you'd  better  stay  where 
you  are,  Harper.  You're  not  strong  enough.' 
And  he  crept  on  the  deck  like  a  cat. 

"Something  urged  me  to  follow  him,  even 
if  it  took  the  last  drop  of  my  strength.  Kato 
tried  to  dissuade  me,  but  I  drained  the  brandy 
flask,  and  managed  to  get  out  of  my  berth  on 
to  the  deck  by  going  very  slowly,  though  the 
sweat  broke  out  on  me  with  every  step.  Bur 
gess  had  disappeared,  and  there  was  nobody  on 
deck.  It  was  not  so  difficult  to  get  to  the  sky 
light  of  the  cabin.  I  don't  know  what  I  had 
expected  to  see,  but  there  I  did  see  the  figure 
of  Captain  Dayrell,  dressed  as  I  had  seen  him 
in  life,  with  a  big  scarf  round  his  throat,  and 
the  big  peaked  cap.  There  was  an  open  chest 
in  the  corner,  with  a  good  many  clothes  scat- 


174  WALKING  SHADOWS 

tered  about,  as  if  by  some  one  who  had  been 
dressing  in  a  hurry.  It  was  an  old  chest  be 
longing  to  Captain  Dayrell  in  the  old  days, 
and  I  often  wondered  why  Burgess  had  left  it 
lying  there.  The  revolver  lay  on  the  table, 
and  as  Dayrell  picked  it  up  to  load  it,  the  scarf 
unwound  itself  a  little  around  his  throat  and 
the  lower  part  of  his  face.  Then,  to  my 
amazement,  I  recognized  him." 

"There,"  said  Knight,  "the  log  of  the  Eve 
ning  Star  ends  except  for  a  brief  sentence  by 
Kato  himself,  which  I  will  not  read  to  you 
now." 

"I  wonder  if  the  poor  devil  did  really  see," 
said  Moreton  Fitch.  "And  what  do  you  sup 
pose  he  did  when  he  saw  who  it  was?" 

"Crept  back  to  his  own  berth,  barricaded 
himself  in  with  Kato's  help,  finished  his  ac 
count,  died  in  the  night,  with  Dayrell  tapping 
on  the  door,  and  was  neatly  buried  by  Burgess 
in  the  morning,  I  suppose." 

"And,  Burgess?" 

"Tidied  everything  up,  and  then  jumped 
overboard." 

"Probably, — in  his  own  clothes;  for  it's 
quite  true  that  we  did  find  a  lot  of  Dayrell's 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  EVENING  STAR     175 

old  clothes  in  a  sea-chest  in  the  cabin.  Funny 
idea,  isn't  it,  a  man  ghosting  himself  like 
that?" 

"Yes,  but  what  did  Harper  mean  by  saying 
he  heard  Mrs.  Burgess  singing  in  the  cabin 
that  night?" 

"Ah,  that's  another  section  of  the  log  re 
corded  in  a  different  way." 

Moreton  Fitch  made  a  sign  to  the  little 
Japanese,  and  told  him  to  get  a  package  out  of 
his  car.  He  returned  in  a  moment,  and  laid  it 
at  our  feet  on  the  floor. 

"Dayrell  was  very  proud  of  his  wife's 
voice,"  said  Fitch  as  he  took  the  covers  off  the 
package.  "Just  before  he  was  taken  ill  he 
conceived  the  idea  of  getting  some  records 
made  of  her  songs  to  take  with  him  on  board 
ship.  The  gramophone  was  found  amongst 
the  old  clothes.  The  usual  sentimental  stuff, 
you  know.  Like  to  hear  it?  She  had  rather 
a  fine  voice." 

He  turned  a  handle,  and,  floating  out  into 
the  stillness  of  the  California  night,  we  heard 
the  full  rich  voice  of  a  dead  woman : 

"Just  a  song  at  twilight,  when  the  lights  are  low, 
And  the  flickering  shadows  softly  come  and  go." 


176  WALKING  SHADOWS 

At  the  end  of  the  stanza,  a  deep  bass  voice 
broke  in  with,  "Encore!  Encore!" 

Then  Fitch  stopped  it. 

When  we  were  in  the  car  on  our  way  home, 
I  asked  if  there  were  any  clue  to  the  fate  of 
the  Japanese  cook,  in  the  last  sentence  of  the 
log  of  the  Evening  Star. 

"I  didn't  want  to  bring  it  up  before  his 
brother,"  said  Knight,  "they  are  a  sensitive 
folk;  but  the  last  sentence  was  to  the  effect 
that  the  Evening  Star  had  now  been  claimed 
by  the  spirit  of  Captain  Dayrell,  and  that  the 
writer  respectfully  begged  to  commit  harl 
kari." 

Our  road  turned  inland  here,  and  I  looked 
back  toward  the  fishing  village.  The  night 
was  falling,  but  the  sea  was  lilac-colored  with 
the  afterglow.  I  could  see  the  hut  and  the  lit 
tle  birdhouse  black  against  the  water.  On  a 
sand  dune  just  beyond  them,  the  figures  of  the 
fisherman  Kato  and  his  wife  were  sitting  on 
their  heels,  and  still  watching  us.  They  must 
have  been  nearly  a  mile  away  by  this  time; 
but  in  that  clear  air  they  were  carved  out  sharp 
and  black  as  tiny  ebony  images  against  the 
fading  light  of  the  Pacific. 


VII 
GOBLIN  PEACHES 

THE  big  liner  was  running  like  a  ghost, 
with  all  lights  out  on  deck  and  every 
porthole  shrouded.     This  might  seem 
to  the  layman  almost  humorously  inconsistent; 
for,  every  minute  or  two  the  blast  of  her  fog 
horn  went  bellowing  away  into   the   night, 
loudly  enough  to  disturb  the  slumbers  of  any 
U-boat  lying  "doggo"  within  five  miles. 

Duncan  Drew  and  I  were  alone  in  the 
smoking-room  when  the  steward  brought  us 
our  coffee.  There  were  very  few  passengers; 
and  the  first  cabin-folk  were  curiously  differ 
ent  from  those  of  peace-time.  Most  of  them, 
I  fancied,  were  crossing  the  Atlantic  on  some 
business  directly  connected  with  the  war. 
There  was  a  Belgian  professor  from  Louvain, 
for  instance,  who  was  taking  his  family  over 
to  the  new  post  that  had  been  found  for  him 
at  an  American  University;  and  there  was 
the  wife  of  an  Italian  statesman,  an  American 

177 


178  WALKING  SHADOWS 

woman,  who  was  returning  home  to  raise 
funds  for  the  Red  Cross  of  her  adopted  coun 
try.  There  were  others  whom  it  was  not  so 
easy  to  place ;  and  Duncan  Drew  would  have 
been  among  them,  I  think,  if  I  had  not  known 
him.  Nobody  could  have  looked  more  like 
a  civilian  and  less  like  an  officer  of  the  British 
Navy  than  Duncan  did  at  this  moment.  But 
I  knew  the  job  on  which  he  was  engaged. 
When  he  found  that  I  knew  the  Maine  coast, 
he  asked  me  to  help  him  in  a  certain  matter. 

It  was  in  the  days  before  America  entered 
the  war;  and  his  mission  was  to  present  cer 
tain  evidence  of  a  widespread  German  con 
spiracy  to  the  United  States  Government.  If 
they  approved,  he  was  to  cooperate  in  unearth 
ing  the  ring-leaders.  The  conspiracy  was  a 
very  simple  one.  It  seemed  likely,  at  the 
time,  that  the  U-boats  would  soon  be  unable 
to  operate  from  European  bases ;  and  the  Ger 
man  admiralty,  always  looking  a  few  months 
ahead,  though  perhaps  ignoring  remoter  pos 
sibilities,  was  calmly  planning,  with  the  help 
of  its  agents  in  America,  to  work  from  the 
other  side  of  the  water.  The  thousand-mile 
coast  line  of  the  United  States  had  many  ad 
vantages  from  the  German  point  of  view,  espe- 


GOBLIN  PEACHES  179 

cially  in  its  lonelier  regions,  where  there  are 
hundreds  of  small  islands,  either  uninhabited 
or  privately  owned,  and  not  necessarily  owned 
by  American  citizens.  The  U-boats,  it  is 
true,  would  have  to  travel  further  if  they  were 
to  work  in  European  waters.  But  already 
they  had  been  forced  by  the  British  patrols  to 
travel  more  than  fifteen  hundred  miles  from 
their  European  bases,  far  to  the  north  of 
Scotland  and  west  of  Ireland,  before  they 
could  operate  against  the  Atlantic  shipping. 
The  slight  increase  in  the  distance  would  be 
more  than  repaid  by  the  comparative  safety  of 
the  submarines.  They  planned,  in  short,  to 
work  from  American  bases,  while  a  dull- 
witted  British  Navy  should  be  vainly  endeav 
oring  to  close  European  doors,  which  the 
enemy  was  no  longer  using. 

We  didn't  talk  "shop"  in  the  smoking-room, 
even  when  we  were  alone,  for  the  ground  had 
been  covered  so  often.  On  this  particular 
evening,  I  remember,  we  talked  chiefly  about 
food.  The  dinner  had  been  excellent;  and  it 
had  been  a  curious  sensation  to  pass  from  the 
slight  but  obvious  restrictions  of  London,  to  a 
ship  which  seemed  to  possess  all  the  resources 
of  the  United  States. 


i86  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"I've  only  been  in  Berlin  once,"  said  Dun 
can,  "but  I  was  there  long  enough  to  know  that 
they  will  feel  the  pinch  first,  and  feel  it  worst. 
They  are  rum  beggars,  the  Boches.  Think  of 
the  higher  command  marking  out  the  early 
stages  of  the  war  by  the  dinners  it  was  going 
to  have, — every  menu  carefully  planned,  one 
for  Brussels,  one  for  Paris,  and  probably  one 
for  London!  I  remember  lunching  at  a  hotel 
when  I  was  in  Berlin,  and  seeing  rather  a  curi 
ous  thing.  There  was  a  table  in  the  center  of 
the  room,  laid  for  what  was  evidently  going  to 
be  a  very  grand  affair.  It  was  laid  for  about 
twenty  people,  and  I  saw  a  thing  I  had  never 
seen  before.  Every  champagne  glass  con 
tained  a  peach.  I  asked  my  waiter  what  it 
meant,  and  he  said  that  von  Schramm,  the  fel 
low  who  is  one  of  the  moving  spirits  behind 
this  new  submarine  campaign,  was  entertain 
ing  some  of  his  pals  that  day;  and  this  was  one 
of  his  pretty  little  fads.  He  thought  it  im 
proved  the  wine,  and  also  that  it  prevented 
gout,  or  some  rot  of  that  sort." 

"How  very  German!  My  chief  objection 
would  be  that  there  wouldn't  be  much  room 
left  for  the  champagne." 

"Trust  the  German  for  that,  my  lad.    The 


GOBLIN  PEACHES  181 

glasses  were  extra  large,  and  of  a  somewhat 
unusual  pattern.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  dec 
orative  effect  was  rather  pretty.  It's  queer — 
the  way  some  things  stick  in  your  memory 
and  others  vanish.  I  believe  that  my  most 
vivid  impression  of  the  few  months  I  passed 
in  Germany  is  that  blessed  table,  waiting  for 
its  guests,  with  the  peaches  in  the  champagne 
glasses.  I  didn't  see  the  guests  arrive.  Wish 
I  had  now.  There's  always  something  a  little 
stagey,  don't  you  think,  about  a  table  waiting 
for  its  guests;  but  this  was  more  so.  It  af 
fected  me  like  the  throne  of  melodrama  wait 
ing  for  its  emperor.  Funny  that  it  should 
have  made  such  an  impression,  isn't  it?" 

I  thought  not;  for  it  was  part  of  Duncan's 
business  to  be  impressed  by  unusual  things — 
more  especially  when  they  were  symptomatic 
of  something  else.  It  was  this  that  made  him 
so  useful,  for  instance,  in  that  exciting  little 
episode  of  the  cargo  of  onions  which  was  in 
tercepted — owing  to  one  of  his  impressions — 
in  a  Scandinavian  ship.  They  were  perfectly 
good  onions,  the  first  few  layers  of  them;  and 
they  looked  like  perfectly  good  onions  when 
you  burrowed  into  the  lower  layers.  But 
Duncan  had  been  seized  by  an  absurd  de- 


182  WALKING  SHADOWS 

sire  to  see  whether  they  would  bounce  or  not; 
and  when  he  experimented  on  the  deck,  they 
did  bounce,  bounce  like  cricket  balls,  as  high 
as  the  ship's  funnels. 

This  capture  of  one  of  the  largest  cargoes  of 
contraband  rubber  was  due  to  an  impression 
he  got  from  two  innocent  cablegrams  which 
had  been  intercepted  and  brought  to  him  at 
the  Admiralty, — one  of  them  apparently  con 
cerning  an  operation  for  appendicitis,  and  the 
other  announcing  the  death  of  the  patient. 
His  intuitions,  indeed,  resembled  those  of  the 
artist;  and,  though  he  was  one  of  the  smartest 
sailors  in  the  Navy,  he  looked  more  like  a  pre- 
Raphaelite  painter's  conception  of  Galahad 
than  any  one  I  had  ever  seen  in  the  flesh.  He 
looked  exceedingly  youthful,  and  the  dead 
whiteness  of  his  face,  which  his  Philistine 
brethren  described  as  lantern-jawed,  was 
lighted  by  the  alert  eyes  of  the  new  age.  They 
had  that  peculiar  glitter  which  one  sees  in  the 
eyes  of  aviators,  and  sometimes  in  those  of  the 
business  men  accustomed  to  the  electric  cities 
of  the  new  world.  His  hands  were  like  those 
of  a  musician,  long  and  quick  and  nervous. 
But  I  could  easily  imagine  them  throttling  an 
enemy. 


GOBLIN  PEACHES  183 

We  turned  in  early  that  night,  and  I  dozed 
fitfully,  revolving  fragments  of  our  some 
what  disconnected  conversation.  The  beauti 
ful  sea-cry  "All's  well"  came  to  me  from  the 
watch  in  the  bow,  as  the  bell  tolled  the  passage 
of  the  hours;  and  it  was  not  till  daybreak  that 
I  slept,  only  to  dream  of  that  table  in  Berlin, 
waiting  for  its  guests,  with  a  peach  in  every 
champagne  glass. 

II 

As  we  waited  in  the  cold  brilliance  of  New 
York  harbor,  a  few  mornings  later,  and  looked 
with  considerable  satisfaction  at  the  German 
steamers  that  were  huddled  like  gigantic  red 
and  black  cattle  in  the  docks  of  the  Hamburg- 
Amerika  and  North  German-Lloyd,  a  tele 
gram  was  brought  aboard  which  settled  our 
plans. 

Duncan  was  to  go  down  to  Washington  that 
night,  while  I  was  to  go  up  to  Rockport,  a 
little  fishing  village  on  the  coast  of  Maine. 
At  this  place  I  was  to  take  a  motor-car  and 
drive  some  fifteen  miles  to  a  certain  lonely 
strip  of  pine-clad  coast.  There  we  were  to 
camp  out  in  a  tiny  cottage,  which  we  could 
rent  from  an  old  sea-captain  whom  I  knew  be- 


184  WALKING  SHADOWS 

fore  the  war.  Two  artists,  in  quest  of  a  quiet 
place  for  work,  could  hardly  find  a  happier 
hunting-ground.  I  was  particularly  glad  to 
find  that  we  could  hire  a  trim  little  motor- 
launch,  in  which  we  could  go  exploring  among 
the  islands  that  dotted  the  blue  sea  for  scores 
of  miles.  It  was  a  beautiful  coast,  and  their 
dark  peaks  of  pine  were  printed  like  tiny  black 
feathers  against  a  sky  of  unimaginable  sap 
phire.  Nothing  could  seem  more  remote 
from  the  devilries  of  modern  war. 

Duncan  joined  me,  a  week  later,  in  Captain 
Humphrey's  cottage — it  was  a  small  white- 
painted  wooden  house  among  the  pine  trees  on 
the  main  land,  built  on  the  rocks  which  over 
hung  a  deep  blue  inlet  of  the  Atlantic.  We 
discussed  our  plans  on  the  little  veranda,  from 
which  we  could  see  half  a  dozen  of  those  pine- 
crowned  islands,  which  were  the  objects  of 
suspicion.  There  were  scores  of  others  we 
could  not  see,  to  north  and  south  of  us,  and 
we  checked  them  off  on  the  map  as  we  sat 
there  under  the  dried  sunfish  and  the  other 
queer  marine  trophies,  which  the  old  skipper 
had  brought  back  with  him  from  the  South 
Seas. 

The  nights  were  quite  cold  enough  for  a 


GOBLIN  PEACHES  185 

fire,  though  it  was  only  mid-July;  and  we  fin 
ished  all  our  plans  that  evening  round  the  big 
stove,  the  kind  of  thing  you  see  in  the  foc'sle 
of  a  steam  trawler,  which  stood  in  the  center 
of  Captain  Humphrey's  parlor.  We  were 
more  than  a  little  glad  indeed  to  let  our  pipes 
and  the  good-smelling  pine  logs  waft  their 
incense  abroad;  for — like  all  the  dwellers  in 
those  parts — the  old  skipper  subsisted  through 
the  winter  on  the  codfish  which  he  had  salted 
and  stored  during  the  summer  in  his  attic;  and 
though  his  abode  was  clean  and  neat  as  him 
self,  it  had  the  healthy  reek  of  a  trawler,  as 
well  as  its  heating  apparatus.  A  large  oil 
lamp,  which  hung  from  the  ceiling,  was  none 
the  worse,  moreover,  for  the  moderating  influ 
ence  of  a  little  wood-smoke. 

"To-morrow,  then,"  said  Duncan,  "we  take 
the  motor-launch  and  have  a  look  at  all  the 
islands  between  this  place  and  Rockport. 
They've  been  awfully  decent  down  in  Wash 
ington  about  it.  The  only  trouble  is  that  they 
don't  and  can't  believe  it.  Exactly  the  state 
of  mind  we  were  in,  before  the  war.  Every 
body  laughing  at  exactly  the  same  things,  from 
spy-stories  to  signals  on  the  coast.  I  met  a 
man  in  the  Government  who  had  been  taken 


186  WALKING  SHADOWS 

to  a  window  at  midnight  to  see  a  light  doing 
the  Morse  code,  off  this  very  coast,  and  he 
laughed  at  it.  Didn't  believe  it.  Thought  it 
was  the  evening-star.  We  were  like  that  our 
selves.  No  decent  man  can  believe  certain 
things,  till  they  are  beyond  question. 

"It's  our  own  fault.  We  told  them  all  was 
well  before  the  war;  and  I  don't  see  how  we 
can  blame  them  for  thinking  their  own  inter 
vention  unnecessary  now.  We  keep  on  telling 
America  that  it's  all  over  except  the  shouting. 
We  paint  the  rosiest  kind  of  picture  to-day 
about  the  prospects  of  the  allies;  and  then  we 
grumble  amongst  ourselves  because  Ameri 
cans  don't  turn  the  whole  of  their  continent 
upside  down  to  come  and  help  us.  We  delib 
erately  lulled  America  to  sleep,  and  then  we 
kicked  because  we  heard  that  she  had  only 
one  eye  open. 

"Well, — they've  given  us  a  blessing  on  our 
wild-goose  chase.  We  may  do  all  the  investi 
gating  we  like,  as  I  understand  the  position, 
so  long  as  we  leave  any  resultant  action  to  the 
United  States.  This  means,  I  suppose, — in 
old  Captain  Humphrey's  language — that  we 
may  be  'rubber-necks/  but  we  mustn't  shoot. 
All  the  same,  I  brought  the  guns  with  me." 


GOBLIN  PEACHES  187 

He  laid  two  automatic  pistols  on  the  table. 
"It's  more  than  likely,  from  what  I've  been 
able  to  gather,  that  we  may  have  to  defend  our 
own  skins;  and  I  suppose  that's  permissible. 
Oh,  damn  that  mosquito!"  He  slapped  his 
ankle,  and  complained  bitterly  that  the  old 
sea-captain's  faith  in  his  own  tough  exterior 
had  prevented  him  from  providing  his  doors 
and  windows  with  mosquito  netting. 


It  was  on  the  fourth  morning  of  our  search 
that  things  began  to  happen.  For  my  own 
part,  I  had  already  begun  to  be  so  absorbed 
in  the  peace  of  the  world  about  us,  that  the 
whole  business  of  the  war  seemed  unreal  and 
our  own  quest  futile.  I  could  no  longer  won 
der  at  those  inhabitants  of  the  new  world  who 
were  said  to  look  upon  our  European  Arma 
geddon  as  a  bad  dream,  or  a  morbid  tale  in  a 
book,  which  it  was  better  not  to  open.  As  we 
chug-chugged  along  the  coast,  close  under  the 
thick  pine  woods,  which  grew  almost  to  the 
edge  of  the  foam,  I  thought  I  had  never 
breathed  an  air  so  fragrant,  or  seen  color  so 
brilliant  in  earth  and  sky  and  sea.  Once  or 
twice,  as  we  shut  off  the  motor  and  lay  idle,  we 


i88  WALKING  SHADOWS 

heard  a  hermit-thrush  in  the  woods,  breaking 
the  silence  with  a  peculiarly  plaintive  liquid 
call,  quite  unlike  the  song  of  our  thrushes  at 
home,  but  very  beautiful.  Here  and  there  we 
passed  the  little  red,  blue  and  green  buoys  of 
lobster-pots,  shining  like  jewels  as  the  clear 
water  lapped  about  them  in  that  a^nazing  sun 
light. 

We  were  making  for  a  certain  island  about 
which  we  had  obtained  some  interesting  de 
tails  from  Captain  Humphrey  himself.  He 
told  us  that  it  had  been  purchased  two  or 
three  years  ago  by  a  New  Yorker  who  was 
building  himself  quite  a  fine  place  on  it.  He 
seemed  to  be  a  somewhat  mysterious  character, 
for  he  was  never  seen  on  the  mainland,  and  all 
his  supplies  were  brought  up  to  him  on  his 
own  large  private  yacht. 

"There's  a  wharf  on  the  island,"  said  Cap 
tain  Humphrey,  "with  deep  water  running  up 
to  it,  so  that  a  yacht  can  sail  right  up  to  his 
porch,  as  you  might  say,  and  you  wouldn't 
know  it  was  there.  The  cove  runs  in  on  the 
slant,  and  the  pines  grow  between  it  and  the 
sea.  You  wouldn't  notice  it,  unless  you  ran 
right  in  at  the  mouth.  It  makes  a  fine  private 
harbor  for  a  yacht,  and  I  believe  it  has  held 


GOBLIN  PEACHES  189 

two  at  a  time.  There's  a  good  beach  for  clams 
on  the  west  shore,  but  of  course,  it's  pri 
vate." 

We  certainly  saw  no  sign  of  yacht  or  harbor 
as  we  approached  the  island  from  the  land 
ward  side;  but  we  made  no  departure  from 
our  course  to  look  for  either.  We  were  bound 
for  clam-beach,  where  we  intended  to  do  a 
little  clam-poaching. 

"It  doesn't  look  promising,"  said  Duncan, 
as  we  approached  the  shore.  "There  doesn't 
seem  to  be  anybody  to  warn  trespassers  off. 
But  perhaps  clam-beach  is  not  regarded  as 
dangerous,  and  the  trespassing  begins  further 


on." 


In  a  few  moments  we  had  moored  the 
launch  in  four  feet  of  water,  and  were  ashore 
with  a  couple  of  clam-rakes.  We  had  dug  a 
hundred,  as  we  walked  towards  the  pine-wood, 
when  Duncan  straightened  up  and  said: 

"This  makes  my  back  ache,  and  it's  blazing 
hot.  I'm  going  to  have  a  pipe  in  the  shade, 
up  there." 

I  shouldered  my  rake,  and  followed  him 
into  the  wood.  As  soon  as  we  were  well 
among  the  trees,  we  began  to  walk  quickly  up 
the  thin  winding  path,  which  we  supposed 


190  WALKING  SHADOWS 

would  lead  us  to  the  neighborhood  of  the 
house. 

"Not  at  all  promising,"  said  Duncan. 
"They  would  never  let  us  ramble  about  like 
this  if  they  had  anything  to  conceal.  Just  for 
the  fun  of  it,  we'll  go  up  to  the  house,  and  ask 
if  Mr.  Chutney  Bilge,  the  novelist,  doesn't 
live  there.  You  want  his  autograph,  don't 
you?" 

In  five  minutes,  we  had  emerged  from  the 
pines,  and  saw  before  us  a  very  pleasant  look 
ing  wooden  house  with  a  wide  veranda, 
screened  all  round  with  mosquito-netting,  and 
backed  by  glimpses  of  blue  sea  between  dark 
pine-trunks.  There  was  not  a  soul  to  be  seen, 
and  no  sign  of  its  occupants  anywhere.  We 
walked  up  to  the  porch,  pulled  open  the  netted 
door  in  the  outer  screen,  and  knocked  on  the 
door  of  the  house,  which  stood  wide  open. 
We  waited  and  listened;  but  there  was  no 
sound  except  the  ticking  of  a  clock.  There 
was  another  open  door  on  the  right  side  of  the 
hall.  Duncan  felt  a  sudden  impulse  to  look 
through  it,  and  tip-toed  quietly  forward.  He 
had  no  sooner  looked  than  he  stood  as  if 
turned  to  stone,  with  so  queer  an  expression  on 
his  face  that  I  instantly  came  to  his  side  to  see 


GOBLIN  PEACHES  191 

what  Medusa  had  caused  it.  It  seemed  a  very 
harmless  Medusa;  but  I  doubt  if  anything 
could  have  startled  me  more  at  the  moment. 
We  stood  there,  staring  at  a  table,  laid 
for  lunch.  There  were  twelve  champagne 
glasses,  of  a  somewhat  unusual  pattern;  and 
each  of  these  glasses  contained  a  peach. 

Ill 

Before  I  could  be  quite  sure  whether  I  was 
dreaming  or  waking,  Duncan  had  dashed  into 
the  room  on  the  other  side  of  the  hall,  and 
grabbed  up  a  bundle  of  papers  that  had  been 
dropped  as  if  by  some  one  in  a  great  hurry,  all 
over  the  table.  He  glanced  at  one  or  two. 

"But  this, — this — settles  it,"  he  cried. 
"Come  out  of  it  quickly."  And,  in  a  few 
seconds,  we  were  in  the  cover  of  the  woods 
again. 

"Schramm  himself  is  over  here,  apparently. 
He  must  have  come  by  U-boat,"  Duncan  mut 
tered,  as  we  hurried  down  the  path  towards 
our  launch.  "If  they  catch  us,  we're  simply 
dead  and  buried,  and  past  praying  for." 

"But  what  does  it  mean?  Where  are  they? 
Why  the  devil  have  they  left  everything  open 
to  the  first-comer?" 


192  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"Beats  me  completely.  But  we'd  better  not 
wait  to  inquire.  The  next  move  is  up  to 
Washington." 

"Look  here,  Duncan,  we'd  better  be  careful 
about  our  exit  from  the  woods.  If  any  one 
happens  to  have  spotted  the  launch,  we  may 
run  our  heads  into  a  trap." 

I  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  we  were  being 
watched,  and  that  every  movement  we  made 
was  plainly  seen  by  a  gigantic  but  invisible 
spectator,  very  much  the  kind  of  feeling,  I 
suppose,  that  insects  must  have  under  the  mi 
croscope.  I  felt  sure  that  we  were  not  going 
to  have  it  all  our  own  way  with  this  quiet  is 
land.  Duncan  hesitated  for  a  moment,  but  I 
was  insistent  that  we  should  take  a  look  at  our 
landing  place  before  we  left  our  cover.  It 
was  a  characteristic  of  Duncan  that  as  soon  as 
he  had  discovered  what  he  wanted,  he  became 
as  forthright  a  sailor  as  you  could  wish  to 
find;  and  I  knew  that  if  we  were  to  escape 
with  whole  skins,  or  even  to  make  use  of  our 
discovery,  I  should  have  to  exercise  my  own 
wits.  Fortunately,  my  own  "impressions"  be 
gan  when  his  finished;  for,  after  he  had 
yielded  to  my  persuasion,  we  made  a  slight 
circuit  through  the  woods,  and  crept  out 


GOBLIN  PEACHES  193 

through  the  long  grass  on  the  top  of  the  little 
cliff,  overlooking  the  beach  where  we  had 
landed.  Our  clams  were  still  there,  in  two 
neat  little  dumps.  So  was  the  launch,  but  in 
the  stern  of  it  there  sat  a  tall  red-bearded  man, 
who  looked  like  a  professor,  and  a  couple  of 
sailors.  They  were  all  three  talking  German 
in  low,  excited  tones,  and  they  were  all  three 
armed  with  rifles. 

The  launch  lay  almost  directly  below  us, 
and  we  could  hear  some  of  their  conversation. 
I  gathered  that  the  luncheon  party  had  gone 
on  board  a  U-boat  which  had  just  arrived,  to 
inspect  the  latest  improvements.  Something 
had  gone  wrong.  They  had  submerged ;  and 
it  seemed  to  be  doubtful  whether  they  could 
get  her  up  again.  That,  of  course,  was  why 
the  house  was  deserted  and  our  trespassing 
unforbidden.  It  was  probably  also  the  reason 
why  the  sentries  had  been  absent,  and  had  only 
just  discovered  our  launch  on  their  rounds. 
One  of  the  sailors  was  aggrieved,  it  seemed  to 
me,  that  no  effort  was  being  made  to  obtain 
other  help  for  the  submerged  men  than  the 
island  itself  could  lend.  His  best  friend  was 
aboard;  and  he  thought  it  wicked  not  to  give 
them  a  chance,  even  if  it  meant  their  intern- 


194  WALKING  SHADOWS 

ment.  The  red-bearded  professor  was  ex 
plaining  to  him,  however,  in  the  most  highly 
approved  style  of  modern  Germany,  that  his 
feelings  were  by  no  means  logical ;  and  that  it 
was  far  nobler  to  sacrifice  one's  friends  than  to 
endanger  the  State. 

"But,  if  the  State  is  a  kind  of  devil,"  said 
the  sailor,  who  was  a  bit  of  a  logician  himself, 
"I  prefer  my  friends,  who  in  the  meantime  are 
being  suffocated." 

"That  is  a  fallacy,"  the  professor  was  an 
swering.  Then,  from  the  direction  of  the 
house,  there  came  a  confused  sound  of  shout 
ing. 

A  fourth  sailor  came  tearing  down  the 
beach  like  a  maniac. 

"Where  are  the  clam-fishers?"  he  called  to 
the  three  philosophers.  "They  are  to  be 
taken,  dead  or  alive." 

At  the  same  moment,  I  saw  the  glint  of  the 
sun  on  the  revolvers  of  several  other  men,  who 
were  advancing  through  the  woods  towards 
the  beach,  peering  to  right  and  left  of  them. 
Without  a  whisper  between  us,  Duncan  and 
I  crawled  off  along  the  cliff,  through  the  thick 
undergrowth. 

Obviously,  the  submarine  had  come  to  the 


GOBLIN  PEACHES  195 

surface  again,  and  the  whole  merry  crowd  was 
on  our  track.  The  island  was  not  more  than 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  diameter;  and  I  saw  no 
hope  of  evading  our  pursuers,  of  whom  there 
must  be  at  least  twenty,  judging  from  the  cries 
that  reached  us.  There  was  nothing  for  it, 
but  to  choose  the  best  place  for  putting  up  a 
fight;  and,  as  luck  would  have  it,  we  were 
already  on  the  best  line  of  defense.  The  un 
dergrowth  between  the  cliff's  edge  and  the 
woods  was  so  thick  that  nobody  could  discover 
us,  except  by  crawling  up  the  trail  by  which 
we  had  ourselves  entered.  It  proved  to  be  the 
only  way  by  which  the  cliff's  edge  could  be  ex 
plored,  and  we  had  a  full  half-mile  of  the 
island's  circumference,  a  long  ledge,  only  a 
few  feet  wide,  on  which  we  could  crawl  in 
security  for  the  time  being,  till  the  hunt  came 
up  behind  us.  I  remember  noticing — even  in 
those  moments  of  peril — that  the  ground  and 
the  bushes  were  littered  with  big  crab  claws 
and  clam  shells  that  had  been  dropped  and 
picked  there  by  the  sea  gulls  and  crows ;  and 
I  was  thinking — in  some  queer  way — of  the 
easy  life  that  these  birds  lead,  when  I  almost 
put  my  hand  on  a  human  skull,  protruding 
from  a  litter  of  loose  earth,  white  flakes  of 


196  WALKING  SHADOWS 

shell  and  crabs'  backs.  Duncan  pulled  a  heap 
of  the  evil-smelling  stuff  away  with  his  clam- 
rake,  and  bared  the  right  side  of  the  skeleton. 
There  was  a  half-rotten  clam-rake  in  the  bony 
clutch  of  the  dead  man.  Evidently,  somebody 
else  had  paid  the  penalty  before  us.  The 
body  had  been  buried,  and  rain,  snow,  or  the 
insatiable  sea-gulls  had  uncovered  the  yellow- 
toothed  head. 

A  few  yards  further  on,  the  cliff  projected 
so  far  out  that  even  when  one  hung  right  over 
the  edge,  it  was  only  just  possible  to  see  where 
it  met  the  swirling  water,  which  seemed  very 
deep  here.  About  fifteen  yards  out,  there  was 
a  big  boulder  of  rock,  covered  with  brown  sea 
weed. 

"Look  here,  Duncan,"  I  said,  "there's  only 
one  real  chance  for  us.  We've  got  to  swim 
to  the  mainland,  but  we  can't  do  it  by  daylight. 
We've  got  to  pass  six  hours  till  it's  dark 
enough,  and  there's  only  one  way  to  do  it. 
How  far  can  you  swim  under  water?" 

"About  fifty  feet,"  he  said.  "You're  going 
crazy,  old  man,  it's  a  mile  and  a  half  to  the 
mainland." 

"Duncan,  you're  a  devil  of  a  man  for  get 
ting  into  a  scrape.  But  when  it  comes  to 


GOBLIN  PEACHES  197 

getting  out  of  one,  I  feel  a  little  safer  in  my 
own  hands.  Can  you  get  as  far  as  that  rock 
under  water?" 

"I  think  so,"  he  said,  and  caught  on  to  the 
suggestion  at  once. 

The  cries  were  coming  along  the  cliff's  edge 
now,  and  it  was  a  question  of  only  half  a  min 
ute  before  some  of  our  pursuers  would  be  on 
the  top  of  us. 

"Hurry,  then.  Swim  to  the  north  of  the 
rock,  and  don't  come  up  till  you're  on  the  other 
side.  If  you  feel  yourself  rising,  grab  hold  of 
the  sea-weed,  and  keep  yourself  down  till 
you've  hauled  round  the  rock.  Quick!" 

There  was  a  crashing  in  the  bushes,  not  fifty 
yards  away,  along  the  cliff,  as  we  dived  into 
the  clear  green  water.  The  plunge  carried 
one  further  than  I  expected,  and  four  or  five 
strokes  along  the  bottom  of  the  sea  brought 
me  to  the  base  of  the  rock.  It  was  quite  easy 
to  turn  it,  and  I  was  relieved  to  find  that  there 
was  a  good  ledge  for  landing  on  the  further 
side,  only  an  inch  or  two  above  the  level  of 
the  water,  and  quite  screened  from  the  island 
by  the  rock  itself,  which  was  about  ten  feet  in 
length,  and  curved  in  a  half-moon  shape,  with 
the  horns  pointing  towards  the  mainland.  In 


198  WALKING  SHADOWS 

fact,  it  was  like  a  large  Chesterfield  couch  of 
stone,  covered  with  brown  sea-weed,  and  reso 
lutely  turning  its  back  on  the  island.  We 
were  luckier  than  I  had  dared  to  hope;  and 
when,  in  a  few  seconds,  Duncan  had  coiled 
himself  on  the  ledge  beside  me,  I  saw  by  his 
grin  that  he  thought  we  had  solved  the  prob 
lem  of  escape.  For  five  minutes  we  lay  dead 
still,  listening  to  the  clamor  along  the  cliff 
from  which  we  had  just  dived. 

"Thank  the  Lord,  we  get  the  sun  here," 
said  Duncan  at  last,  as  the  sounds  died  away. 
"There's  only  one  thing  that  worries  me  now. 
What  are  we  to  do  when  they  come  round  in  a 
boat?" 

"They  won't  think  of  that  for  some  time,"  I 
said,  "but  when  they  do,  we  must  take  to  the 
water  again,  and  work  round  behind  the  rock. 
We  ought  to  be  able  to  keep  it  between  us  and 
the  blighters,  with  any  luck.  We've  only  got 
to  keep  enough  above  water  to  breathe  with; 
and  I've  seen  some  fine  camouflage  done  with 
a  little  sea-weed  before  now." 

We  looked  at  the  yard-long  fringes  of 
brown  sea-weed,  and  decided  that  it  would  be 
possible  to  defy  anything  but  the  closest  in 
spection  of  our  rock  by  the  simple  process  of 


GOBLIN  PEACHES  199 

sliding  down  into  the  water  and  pulling  the 
sea-weed  over  our  heads,  on  the  side  next  to 
the  island.  There  was  a  reef  which  would 
prevent  a  boat  passing  on  that  side. 

Our  clothes  were  almost  dried  by  the  blaz 
ing  sun  before  we  were  disturbed  again. 
Duncan  was  ruefully  contemplating  a  corn 
cob  pipe,  which  he  affirmed  had  been  ruined 
by  the  salt  water.  He  poked  the  stem  at  a 
huge  sea-anemone,  which  immediately  sucked 
it  in,  and  held  it  as  firmly  as  a  smoker's  mouth, 
with  so  ludicrous  an  effect  that  Duncan's  ris 
ible  faculties  were  dangerously  moved.  I  was 
half  afraid  of  one  of  his  volcanic  guffaws, 
when  we  both  heard  a  sound  that  struck  us 
dumb, — the  sound  of  oars  coming  steadily  in 
our  direction.  We  slipped  into  the  water,  ac 
cording  to  plan,  hauled  ourselves  round  be 
hind  the  rock,  and  drew  the  long  thick  fringes 
of  sea-weed  over  our  heads.  We  held  our 
selves  anchored  there  by  the  brown  stems,  and 
kept  little  more  than  our  noses  above  the 
water.  No  concealment  could  have  been 
more  complete.  The  boat  passed  on;  and  in 
five  minutes  we  were  back  again  on  our  ledge, 
and  drying  in  the  sun. 

"Good    Lord,"    said    Duncan,    suddenly, 


200  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"that  was  a  near  shave.  I'd  forgotten  that 
beastly  thing." 

He  pointed  to  the  sea-anemone,  which  was 
still  sucking  at  the  yellow  corn-cob  pipe.  It 
looked  like  the  bristling  red  mouth  of  some 
drunken  and  half-submerged  sea-god,  and 
could  hardly  have  been  missed  by  the  boat's 
crew,  if  they  had  been  looking  for  anything 
like  it. 

"Lord,  what  a  shave!"  he  said  again. 
"What  would  Schramm  have  said  if  he  had 
seen  it!" 

Then,  as  we  stared  at  the  absurd  marine 
creature,  we  rocked  in  silent  spasms  of  mirth — 
human  beings  are  made  of  a  very  queer  clay — 
picturing  the  bewildered  faces  of  the  Boches 
at  a  sight  which  would  have  meant  our  death. 

The  sense  of  humor  was  benumbed  in  both 
of  us  before  long.  The  sun  was  dropping 
low,  and  we  did  not  dry  as  quickly  as  before. 
There  was  a  stillness  on  the  island,  which 
boded  no  good,  I  thought,  though  our  pursu 
ers  evidently  believed  that  we  had  escaped 
them. 

"They  probably  think  we  swam  ashore  ear 
lier  in  the  game,"  said  Duncan.  "They  must 
be  sick  at  not  having  spotted  us." 


GOBLIN  PEACHES  201 

"I  wonder  what  they  are  up  to  now?" 

"Probably  destroying  evidence,  and  getting 
ready  to  clear  out,  if  they  really  have  a  notion 
that  their  big  men  over  here  may  be  involved. 
.Unfortunately,  these  papers  don't  give  any 
thing  away,  so  far  as  I  can  see  except  that 
they're  addressed  to  Schramm;  but  it's  quite 
obvious  what  they  were  doing." 

We  lay  still  and  waited,  listening  to  the 
strangely  peaceful  lapping  of  the  water  round 
our  rock,  and  watching  the  big  sea-perch  and 
rock-cod  that  moved  like  shadows  below. 

"I  wonder  if  that  fellow  suspects  mischief," 
said  Duncan,  pointing  over  the  cliff.  "By 
Jove!  isn't  he  splendid?" 

Over  the  highest  point  of  the  island  a  white- 
headed  eagle  was  mounting,  in  great,  slow, 
sweeping  circles,  without  one  beat  of  the  long, 
dark  wings  that  must  have  measured  seven  feet 
from  tip  to  tip. 

"It's  too  splendid  to  be  the  German  eagle. 
Praise  the  Lord,  it's  the  native  species;  and 
he's  taking  his  time  because  he  has  to  take 
wide  views.  He  has  to  soar  high  enough  to 
get  his  bearings." 

Up  and  up,  the.  glorious  creature  circled, 
till  he  dwindled  in  the  dazzling  blue  to  the 


202  WALKING  SHADOWS 

size  of  a  sea-gull;  and  still  he  wheeled  and 
mounted,  till  he  became  a  black  dot  no  bigger 
than  an  English  sky-lark.  Then  he  moved, 
like  a  bullet,  due  east. 

"I  almost  believe  in  omens,"  said  Duncan. 
"Ah,  look  out !  There  they  come  1" 

The  masts  of  a  large  yacht,  which  must 
have  emerged  from  the  private  harbor  of 
which  Captain  Humphrey  spoke,  came  slowly 
round  the  island.  We  had  only  just  time 
to  slip  into  the  water,  behind  our  rock,  be 
fore  she  came  into  full  view.  She  passed 
so  near  to  us  that  the  low  sun  cast  the  traveling 
shadows  of  her  railing  almost  within  reach  of 
my  hand;  and  the  shadows  of  her  two  boats  on 
the  port  side  came  along  the  clear  green  water 
between  us  and  the  island,  like  the  gray  ghosts 
of  some  old  pirate's  dinghies. 

She  must  have  been  still  in  sight,  and  we 
were  still  in  our  hiding-place,  when  it  seemed 
as  if  the  island  tried  to  leap  towards  the  sky, 
and  we  were  deafened  by  a  terrific  concussion. 
Fragments  of  wood,  and  great  pieces  of  stone, 
dropped  all  round  us  in  the  poppling  water, 
and  more  than  one  deadly  missile  struck  the 
rock  itself. 

"They've  blown  up  the  whole  show!"  cried 


GOBLIN  PEACHES  203 

Duncan.  "There  can't  be  anybody  left  alive 
on  the  island!" 

We  waited — ten  minutes  or  more — to  see  if 
other  explosions  were  to  follow.  Then  we 
swam  for  clam-beach  to  investigate.  It  was 
littered  with  fragments  of  the  buildings  that 
had  been  destroyed.  The  tarred  roof  of  a 
shed  had  been  dropped  there  almost  intact,  as 
if  from  the  claws  of  some  gigantic  eagle.  The 
pine-wood  looked  as  if  it  had  been  subjected 
to  a  barrage  fire;  and,  in  many  places,  the  un 
dergrowth  was  burning  furiously. 

We  dashed  up  the  path,  with  the  smoke 
stinging  our  eyes,  towards  the  dull  red  glow, 
which  was  already  beginning  to  rival  the  deep 
ening  crimson  of  the  Maine  sunset.  The  cen 
tral  portion  of  the  house  was  still  standing, 
though  much  of  it  had  been  blown  bodily 
away,  and  the  fire  was  laying  fierce  hands 
upon  it  from  all  sides.  We  turned  to  the 
north,  where  we  supposed  the  wharf  had  been. 
The  remains  of  half  a  dozen  sheds  were  burn 
ing  on  one  side  of  the  cove,  and  it  looked  as  if 
half  the  cliff  had  been  tumbled  into  it  on  the 
other. 

The  heat  of  the  fire  along  the  wharf  was  so 
fierce  that  we  turned  back  to  the  house  again. 


204  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"Well,"  said  Duncan,  "there's  evidence 
enough  to  give  a  few  good  headlines  to  the 
neutral  press, — 'Gasoline  Explosion  on  Maine 
Coast!  W eathly  New  Yorker  Escapes  Death 
in  Fiery  Furnace!'  Fortunately,  there's  also 
enough  for  Washington  to  lay  up  in  its  mem 
ory." 

Another  section  of  the  house  fell  as  we 
looked  at  it;  and  we  saw  the  interior  of  the 
dining-room,  with  the  flames  licking  up  the 
three  remaining  walls.  By  one  of  those  curi 
ous  freaks  of  high-explosive,  the  table  was 
hardly  disarranged ;  and  our  last  glimpse  of  it, 
through  a  fringe  of  fire,  showed  us  those 
twelve  queer  champagne  glasses.  They  stood 
there,  flickering  like  evil  goblins,  a  peach  in 
every  glass.  .  .  . 

We  watched  them  for  five  minutes.  Then 
the  whole  scintillating  fabric  collapsed;  and 
we  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  frantic  motor- 
boat,  which  was  already  thumping  towards  us, 
with  the  reporter  of  the  Rockport  Sentinel 
furiously  writing  in  her  bows. 


VIII 
MAY  MARGARET 

"Clerk  Sanders  and  May  Margaret 
Walked  ower  yon  garden  greenf 
And  sad  and  heavy  was  the  love 
That  fell  thae  twa  between." 

MAY  MARGARET  was  an  American 
girl,  married  to  a  lieutenant  in  the 
British  Army  named  Brian  David 
son.  When  the  regretful  telegram  from  the 
War  Office,  announcing  his  depth  in  action, 
was  delivered  to  her  in  her  London  apartment, 
she  read  it  without  a  quiver,  crumpled  it  up, 
threw  it  into  the  fire,  and  leaned  her  head 
against  her  arm,  under  his  photograph  on  the 
mantel-piece.  When  her  heart  began  to  beat 
again,  she  went  to  her  bed-room  and  locked 
the  door.  This  was  not  the  Anglo-American 
love-affair  of  fiction.  Both  of  them  were  pov 
erty-stricken  in  the  estimation  of  their  friends; 
and  it  was  only  by  having  her  black  evening 
dress  "done  over,"  and  practising  other  strict 

205 


2o6  WALKING  SHADOWS 

economies  for  a  whole  year,  that  May  Mar 
garet  had  been  able  to  sail  from  New  York 
to  work  in  an  European  hospital.  The  mar 
riage  had  taken  place  a  little  more  than  three 
months  ago,  while  Davidson  was  home  on  a 
few  days'  leave. 

After  the  announcement  of  his  death,  she 
did  not  emerge  from  her  room  until  the  usual 
letter  arrived  from  the  front,  explaining  with 
the  usual  helplessness  of  the  brother  officer, 
that  Davidson  was  really  "one  of  the  best," 
that  "everybody  liked  him,"  and  that  "he  was 
the  life  and  soul  of  his  company."  But  the 
letter  contained  one  thing  that  she  was  not  ex 
pecting,  an  official  photograph  of  the  grave, 
a  quarter-plate  picture  of  an  oblong  of  loose 
earth,  marked  with  a  little  cross  made,  appar 
ently,  of  two  sticks  of  kindling  wood.  And  it 
was  this  that  had  brought  her  back  to  life 
again.  It  was  so  strangely  matter-of-fact,  so 
small,  so  complete,  that  it  brought  her  out  of 
the  great  dark  spaces  of  her  grief.  It  re 
minded  her  of  something  that  Davidson  had 
once  written  in  a  letter  from  the  trenches. 
"Things  out  here  are  not  nearly  so  bad  as  peo 
ple  at  home  imagine.  At  home,  one  pictures 
the  war  as  a  great  blaze  of  horror.  Out  here, 


MAY  MARGARET  207 

things  become  more  sharply  defined,  as  the 
lights  of  a  city  open  up  when  you  approach 
them,  or  as  the  Milky  Way  splits  itself  up  into 
points  of  light  under  the  telescope.  I  have 
never  seen  a  dead  body  yet  that  looked  more 
imposing  than  a  suit  of  old  clothes.  The  real 
man  was  somewhere  else." 

She  examined  the  photograph  with  a  kind 
of  curiosity.  In  this  new  sense  of  the  reality 
of  death,  the  rattle  of  the  traffic  outside  had 
grown  strange  and  dreamlike,  and  the  rattle 
of  the  tea-things  and  the  smell  of  the  buttered 
toast  which  an  assiduous,  but  discreet  landlady 
placed  at  her  side,  seemed  as  fantastic  and  re 
mote  as  any  fairy-tale.  All  the  trivial  details 
of  the  life  around  her  had  assumed  a  new  and 
mysterious  quality.  She  seemed  to  be  moving 
in  a  phantasmagorical  world.  The  round  red 
face  of  the  landlady  came  and  went  like  the 
goblin  things  you  may  see  over  your  shoulder 
in  a  looking-glass  at  twilight.  And  the  center 
of  all  this  insubstantial  dream-stuff  was  that 
one  vivid  oblong  of  loose  earth,  marked  with 
two  sticks  of  kindling  wood,  in  the  neat  and 
sharply  defined  official  photograph. 

There  was  something  that  looked  like  a 
black  thread  entwining  the  arms  of  the  tiny 


208  WALKING  SHADOWS 

cross;  and  she  puzzled  over  it  stupidly,  won 
dering  what  it  could  be.  "I  suppose  I  could 
write  and  ask,"  she  said  to  herself.  Then 
an  over-mastering  desire  seized  her.  She 
must  go  and  see  it.  She  must  go  and  see  the 
one  fragment  of  the  earth  that  remained  to 
her,  if  only  for  the  reason  that  there,  perhaps, 
she  might  find  the  relief  of  tears.  But  she  had 
another  reason  also,  a  reason  that  she  would 
never  formulate,  even  to  herself,  an  overmas 
tering  impulse  from  the  depths  of  her  being. 

May  Margaret  had  no  intimate  friends  in 
London.  She  had  established  herself  in  these 
London  lodgings  with  the  cosmopolitan  inde 
pendence  of  the  American  girl,  whose  own 
country  contains  distances  as  great  as  that 
from  London  to  Petrograd.  The  world 
shrinks  a  little  when  your  own  country  is  a 
continent;  and  it  was  with  no  sense  of  remote 
ness  that  she  now  went  to  the  telephone  and 
rang  up  the  London  office  of  the  Chicago  Bul 
letin. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  Mr.  Harvey,"  she  said. 
"Is  this  Mr.  Harvey?  This  is  Mrs.  David 
son, — Margaret  Grant — you  remember,  don't 
you?  I  want  to  see  you  about  something  very 
important.  You  are  sending  people  out  to  the 


MAY  MARGARET  209 

front  all  the  time,  aren't  you,  in  connection 
with  your  newspapers?  Well,  I  want  to 
know  if  you  can  arrange  for  me  to  go.  .  .  . 
Yes,  as  a  woman  correspondent.  .  .  .  Oh,  they 
don't  allow  it?  Not  at  the  British  front?  .  .  . 
Well,  I've  got  to  arrange  it  somehow.  .  .  . 
Won't  you  come  and  see  me  and  talk  it  over? 
...  All  right,  at  six-thirty.  Good-by." 

The  official  photograph  was  still  in  her 
hand  when  Mr.  William  K.  Harvey,  of  the 
Chicago  Bulletin,  was  announced.  He  was  a 
very  young  man  to  be  managing  the  London 
office  of  a  great  newspaper,  but  this  was  not 
a  disadvantage  for  May  Margaret's  purpose. 

"So  you  want  to  go  to  the  front,"  he  said, 
settling  down  into  the  arm-chair  on  the  other 
side  of  the  fire.  "It  would  certainly  make  a 
great  story.  We  ought  to  be  able  to  syndicate 
it  all  through  the  Middle  West;  but  you'll 
have  to  give  up  the  idea  of  the  British  fiont. 
We  might  manage  the  French  front,  I  think." 

"But  I  want  particularly  to  go  to  Arras. 
Surely,  you  can  manage  it,  Mr.  Harvey.  You 
must  know  all  sorts  of  influential  people  here." 
Her  voice,  with  its  husky  contralto  notes, 
rather  like  those  of  a  boy  whose  voice  has 
lately  broken,  had  always  an  appeal  for  Mr. 


210  WALKING  SHADOWS 

Harvey,  and  it  was  particularly  pleasing  just 
then.  He  beamed  through  his  glasses  and  ran 
his  hand  through  his  curly  hair. 

"I  was  talking  to  Sir  William  Robertson 
about  a  very  similar  proposition  only  yester 
day,  and  Sir  William  told  me  that  he'd  do 
anything  on  earth  for  the  Chicago  Bulletin, 
but  the  War  Office,  which  is  in  heaven,  had 
decided  finally  to  allow  no  women  correspond 
ents  at  the  British  front." 

May  Margaret  rose  and  went  to  the  win 
dow.  For  a  moment  she  pressed  her  brow 
against  the  cool  glass  and,  as  she  stared  hope 
lessly  at  the  busses  rumbling  by,  an  idea  came 
to  her.  She  wondered  that  she  had  not 
thought  of  it  before. 

"Come  here,  Mr.  Harvey,"  she  said.  "I 
want  to  show  you  something." 

He  joined  her  at  the  window.  A  bus  had 
halted  by  the  opposite  pavement.  The  con 
ductor  was  swinging  lightly  down  by  the 
hand-rail,  a  very  youthful  looking  conductor, 
in  breeches  and  leggings. 

"Is  that  a  man  or  a  woman?"  said  May 
Margaret. 

"A  woman,  isn't  it?" 

"And  that?"     She  pointed  to  another  fig- 


MAY  MARGARET  211 

ure  striding  by  in  blue  overalls  and  a  slouch 
hat. 

"I  don't  know.  There  are  so  many  of  them 
about  now,  that  on  general  principles,  I  guess 
it's  a  woman.  Besides,  it  looks  as  if  it  would 
be  in  the  army  if  it  were  not  a  woman." 

"Yes,  but  I  am  an  American  correspond 
ent,"  said  May  Margaret. 

"Gee!"  said  Mr.  Harvey,  surveying  her 
from  head  to  foot.  His  face  looked  as  if  all 
the  printing  presses  of  the  Chicago  Bulletin 
were  silently  at  work  behind  it.  She  was  tall 
and  lean — a  college  friend  had  described  her 
exactly  as  "half  goddess  and  half  gawk." 
Her  face  was  of  the  open-air  type.  Her  hair 
would  have  to  be  cropped,  of  course.  "Gee!" 
he  said  again.  "It  would  be  the  biggest  scoop 
of  the  war."  .  .  . 

A  fortnight  later,  a  slender  youth  in  khaki- 
colored  clothes,  with  leggings,  arrived  at  the 
Foreign  Office,  presented  a  paper  to  a  sad- 
eyed  messenger  in  the  great  hall,  and  was  led 
to  the  disreputable  old  lift  which,  as  usual, 
bore  a  notice  to  the  effect  that  it  was  not  work 
ing  to-day.  The  sad-eyed  messenger  heaved 
the  usual  sigh,  and  led  the  way  up  three  flights 
of  broad  stone  stairs  to  a  very  dark  waiting- 


212  WALKING  SHADOWS 

room.  There  were  three  other  young  men  in 
the  room,  but  it  was  almost  impossible  to  see 
their  faces. 

"Mr.  Grant,  of  the  Tribune,  wasn't  it,  sir?" 
said  the  messenger. 

"Mr.  Martin  Grant,  of  the  Chicago  Bulle 
tin,"  said  May  Margaret,  and  the  messenger 
shuffled  into  the  distance  along  a  gloomy  cor 
ridor  which  seemed  to  be  older  than  any  tomb 
of  the  Pharaohs,  and  destined  to  last  as  long 
again. 

In  a  few  minutes,  a  young  Englishman,  who 
looked  like  an  army  officer  in  mufti,  but  was 
really  a  clerk  in  the  Foreign  Office,  named 
Julian  Sinclair,  was  making  himself  very 
charming  to  the  four  correspondents.  To  one 
of  them  he  talked  very  fluently  in  Spanish:  to 
another  he  spoke  excellent  Swedish,  bridging 
several  moments  of  misunderstanding  with 
smiles  and  gestures  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  a  Macchiavelli ;  to  the  third,  because 
he  was  a  Greek,  he  spoke  French ;  and  to  Mar 
tin  Grant,  because  he  was  an  American,  he 
spoke  the  language  of  George  Washington, 
and  behaved  as  if  he  were  a  fellow-country 
man  of  slightly  different,  possibly  more  broad- 
minded,  but  certainly  erroneous  politics. 


MAY  MARGARET  213 

Then  he  gave  them  all  a  few  simple  direc 
tions.  He  was  going  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
escorting  them  to  the  front.  It  was  necessary 
that  they  should  be  accompanied  by  some  one 
from  the  Foreign  Office,  he  explained,  in  or 
der  to  save  them  trouble;  and  they  had  been 
asked  to  meet  him  there  to-day  for  purposes  of 
identification  and  to  get  their  passports. 
These  would  have  to  be  stamped  by  both  the 
British  and  French  military  authorities  at  an 
address  which  he  gave  them,  and  they  would 
please  meet  him  at  Charing  Cross  Station  at 
twelve  o'clock  to-morrow  morning.  It  was 
all  very  simple,  and  Mr.  Martin  Grant  felt 
greatly  relieved. 

There  was  a  drizzle  of  rain  the  next  morn 
ing,  for  which  May  Margaret  was  grateful. 
It  was  a  good  excuse  for  appearing  at  the  sta 
tion  in  the  Burberry  raincoat,  which  gave  her 
not  only  a  respite  from  self-consciousness,  but 
an  almost  military  air.  Her  cloth  cap,  too, 
the  peak  of  which  filled  her  strong  young  face 
with  masculine  shadows,  approximated  to  the 
military  shape.  It  was  a  wise  choice;  for  the 
soft  slouch  hat,  which  she  had  tried  at  first, 
had  persistently  assumed  a  feminine  aspect, 
an  almost  absurdly  picturesque  effect,  no  mat- 


214  WALKING  SHADOWS 

ter  how  she  twisted  it  or  pulled  it  down  on 
her  close-cropped  head. 

She  was  the  first  of  the  party  to  arrive,  and 
when  Julian  Sinclair  hurried  along  the  plat 
form  with  the  three  foreign  correspondents, 
there  was  no  time  left  for  conversation  before 
they  were  locked  in  their  compartment  of  the 
military  train.  They  were  the  only  civilians 
aboard. 

She  dropped  into  a  corner  seat  with  her 
newspaper.  But  her  eyes  and  brain  were  busy 
with  the  scene  outside.  The  train  was 
crammed  with  troops,  just  as  it  had  been  on 
that  other  day  when  she  stood  outside  on  the 
platform,  like  those  other  women  there,  and 
said  good-by  to  Brian.  She  was  living  it  all 
over  again,  as  she  watched  those  farewells; 
but  she  felt  nearer  to  him  now,  as  if  she  were 
seeing  things  from  his  own  side,  almost  as  if 
she  had  broken  through  the  barriers  and  taken 
some  dream-train  to  the  next  world,  in  order 
to  follow  him. 

There  was  a  very  young  soldier  leaning 
from  the  window  of  the  next  compartment. 
He  was  talking  to  a  girl  with  a  baby  in  her 
arms.  Her  wide  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face 


MAY  MARGARET  215 

with  the  same  solemn  expression  as  those  of 
the  child,  dark  innocent  eyes  with  the  haunted 
beauty  of  a  Madonna.  They  were  trying  to 
say  something  to  each  other,  but  the  moment 
had  made  them  strangers,  and  they  could  not 
find  the  words. 

"You'll  write,"  she  said  faintly. 

He  nodded  and  smiled  airily.  A  whistle 
blew.  There  was  a  banging  of  doors,  and  a 
roar  of  cheering.  The  little  mother  moved 
impulsively  forward,  climbed  on  to  the  foot 
board,  threw  her  right  arm  around  the  neck  of 
her  soldier,  and  drew  his  face  down  to  her 
own. 

"Stand  back  there,"  bellowed  the  porters. 
But  the  girPs  arm  was  locked  round  the  lad's 
neck  as  if  she  were  drowning,  and  they  took  no 
notice.  The  train  began  to  move.  A  crip 
pled  soldier,  in  blue  hospital  uniform  and  red 
tie,  hobbled  forward  on  his  crutch,  and  took 
hold  of  the  girl. 

"Break  away,"  he  said  gruffly.  "Break 
away,  lass." 

He  pulled  her  back  to  the  platform.  Then 
he  hobbled  forward  with  the  moving  train  and 
spoke  to  the  young  soldier. 


216  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"If  you  meet  the  blighter  wot  gave  me 
this,"  he  said,  pointing  to  his  amputated  thigh, 
"you  give  'im  'ell  for  me!" 

It  was  a  primitive  appeal,  but  the  boy  pulled 
himself  together  immediately,  as  the  veteran 
face,  so  deeply  plowed  with  suffering,  sav 
agely  confronted  his  own.  And,  as  the  train 
moved  on,  and  the  wounded  man  stood  there, 
upright  on  his  crutch,  May  Margaret  saw  that 
there  were  tears  in  those  fierce  eyes — eyes  so 
much  older  than  their  years — and  a  tenderness 
in  the  coarse  face  that  brought  her  heart  into 
her  throat. 

The  journey  to  Folkestone  was  all  a  dream, 
a  dream  that  she  was  glad  to  be  dreaming,  be 
cause  she  was  now  on  the  other  side  of  the  bar 
rier  that  separated  people  at  home  from  those 
at  the  front.  The  queerest  thoughts  passed 
through  her  mind.  She  understood  for  a 
moment  the  poor  groping  endeavors  of  the 
war-bereft  to  break  through  those  darker  bar 
riers  of  the  material  world,  and  get  into  touch, 
no  matter  how  vaguely,  with  the  world  be 
yond.  She  felt  that  in  some  strange  way  she 
was  succeeding. 

They  had  lunch  on  the  train.  She  forced 
herself  to  drink  some  black  coffee,  and  nibble 


MAY  MARGARET  217 

at  some  tepid  mutton.  She  was  vaguely  con 
scious  that  the  correspondents  were  enjoying 
themselves  enormously  at  the  expense  of  the 
State,  and  she  shuddered  at  the  grotesque 
sense  of  humor  which  she  discovered  amongst 
her  thoughts  at  this  moment. 

The  Channel-crossing  on  the  troop-ship 
brought  her  nearer  yet.  There  was  hardly 
standing-room  on  any  of  the  decks,  and  the 
spectacle  was  a  very  strange  one,  for  all  the 
crowded  ranks  in  khaki,  officers  and  men,  had 
been  ordered  to  wear  life-belts.  A  hospital 
ship  which  had  just  arrived  was  delivering  its 
loads  of  wounded  men  to  the  docks,  and  these 
also  were  wearing  life-belts. 

The  sunset-light  was  fading  as  the  troop 
ship  moved  out,  and  the  seas  had  that  peculiar 
iridescent  smoothness,  as  of  a  delicately  tinted 
skin  of  very  faintly  burning  oils,  which  they 
so  often  wear  when  the  wind  falls  at  evening. 
On  one  side  of  the  ship  a  destroyer  was  plow 
ing  through  white  mounds  of  foam;  and  over 
head  there  was  one  of  the  new  silver-skinned 
scouting  air-ships. 

Away  to  the  east,  a  great  line  of  transports 
was  returning  home  with  the  wounded,  and 
the  horizon  was  one  long  stream  of  black 


218  WALKING  SHADOWS 

smoke.  It  was  all  so  peaceful  that  the  life 
belts  seemed  an  anomaly,  and  it  was  difficult 
to  realize  the  full  meaning  of  this  traffic. 
The  white  cliffs  of  England  wore  a  spiritual 
aspect  that  only  the  hour  and  its  grave  signifi 
cance  could  lend  them;  and  May  Margaret 
thought  that  England  had  never  looked  so 
beautiful.  There  were  other  troop-ships  all 
crowded,  about  to  follow,  and  their  cheers 
came  faintly  across  the  water.  The  throb  of 
the  engines  carried  May  Margaret's  ship  away 
rhythmically,  and  somewhere  on  the  lower 
deck  a  mouth  organ  began  playing,  almost 
inaudibly,  "It's  a  Long,  Long  Way  to  Tipper- 
ary."  The  troops  were  humming  the  tune, 
too  softly  for  it  to  be  called  singing,  and  it  all 
blended  with  the  swish  of  the  water  and  the 
hum  of  the  engine-room,  like  a  memory  of 
other  voices,  lost  in  France  and  Flanders. 
May  Margaret  looked  down  at  the  faces. 
They,  too,  were  grave  and  beautiful  with  eve 
ning  light;  and  the  brave  unquestioning  sim 
plicity  of  it  all  seemed  to  her  an  inexpressibly 
noble  thing.  She  thought  for  a  moment  that 
no  pipes  among  the  mists  of  glen  or  mountain, 
no  instrument  on  earth,  ever  had  the  beauty  of 
that  faint  music.  It  was  one  of  those  unheard 


MAY  MARGARET  219 

melodies  that  are  better  than  any  heard.  The 
sea  bore  the  burden.  The  winds  breathed  it 
in  undertone;  and  its  message  was  one  of  a 
peace  that  she  could  not  understand.  Per 
haps,  under  and  above  all  the  tragedies  of  the 
hour,  the  kingdom  of  heaven  was  there. 

The  cliffs  became  ghostly  in  the  distance, 
and  suddenly  on  the  dusky  waters  astern  there 
shone  a  great  misty  star.  It  was  the  first  flash 
of  the  shore  search-lights,  and  May  Margaret 
watched  it  flashing  long  after  the  English 
coast  had  disappeared.  Then  she  lost  the 
search-light  also;  and  the  transport  was  left, 
with  the  dark  destroyer,  to  find  its  way, 
through  whatever  perils  there  might  be,  to  the 
French  coast.  Millions  of  men — she  had 
read  it — had  been  transported,  despite  mines 
and  submarines,  without  the  loss  of  a  single 
life.  She  had  often  wondered  how  it  was  pos 
sible.  Now  she  saw  the  answer. 

A  little  black  ship  loomed  up  ahead  of  them 
and  flashed  a  signal  to  their  escort.  Far 
through  the  dusk  she  saw  them,  little  black 
trawlers  and  drifters,  Lizzie  and  Maggie  and 
Betsy  Jane,  signaling  all  that  human  courage 
could  discover,  of  friend  or  foe,  on  the  face  of 
the  waters  or  under  them. 


220  WALKING  SHADOWS 

In  a  very  short  time  they  caught  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  search-lights  on  the  French 
coast;  and,  soon  afterwards,  they  drew  into  a 
dark  harbor,  amid  vague  cheerings  and  occa 
sional  bursts  of  the  "Marseillaise"  from 
wharves  thronged  with  soldiers  of  a  dozen  na 
tionalities.  A  British  officer  edged  his  way 
through  the  crowd  below  them  on  the  quay, 
and  waved  his  hand  to  Julian  Sinclair. 

"Ah,  there's  our  military  guide,  Captain 
Crump.  Now,  if  you'll  follow  me  and  keep 
together,  we'll  get  our  passports  examined 
quickly,  and  join  him,"  said  the  latter,  obvi 
ously  relieved  at  the  prospect  of  sharing  his 
neutrals  with  a  fellow-countryman. 

There  followed  a  brief,  but  very  exact,  scru 
tiny  and  stamping  of  papers  by  an  aquiline 
gentleman  whose  gold-rimmed  spectacles  sug 
gested  a  microscopical  carefulness;  a  series  of 
abrupt  introductions  to  Captain  Crump  on  the 
gloomy  wharf;  a  hasty  bite  and  sup  in  a  sta 
tion  restaurant,  where  blue  uniforms  mingled 
with  khaki,  and  some  red-tabbed  British  staff- 
officers,  at  the  next  table,  were  drinking  wine 
with  some  turbaned  Indian  Princes.  It  was 
a  strange  glimpse  of  color  and  light  rifting  the 
darkness  for  a  moment.  Then  they  followed 


MAY  MARGARET  221 

Captain  Crump  again,  through  great  tarpau 
lined  munition-dumps  and  loaded  motor- 
lorries,  to  the  two  motor-cars  behind  the  sta 
tion.  In  these  they  were  whirled,  at  forty 
miles  an  hour,  along  one  of  the  poplar-bor 
dered  roads  of  France  that  seemed  to-night  as 
ghostly  as  those  titanic  alleys  of  Ulalume,  in 
the  song  of  May  Margaret's  national  poet. 
Once  or  twice,  as  they  passed  through  a  cluster 
of  cottages,  the  night-wind  brought  a  whirl  of 
iodoform,  and  reminded  her  that  flesh  and 
blood  were  fighting  with  pain  and  death  some 
where  in  that  darkness. 

Every  few  minutes  they  passed  troops  of 
dark  marching  men.  Several  times  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  recognized  the  face  for  which 
she  was  looking,  in  some  momentary  glimmer 
of  starlight. 

At  last  they  reached  the  village  where  the 
guests  of  G.  H.  Q.  were  to  be  quartered.  The 
foreigners  were  assigned  to  the  chateau  which 
was  used  as  a  guest-house ;  but  there  had  been 
one  or  two  unexpected  arrivals,  and  Captain 
Crump  asked  the  American  correspondent  if 
he  would  mind  occupying  a  room  in  the  house 
of  the  cure,  a  hundred  yards  away  up  the 
village  street.  The  American  correspondent 


222  WALKING  SHADOWS 

was  exceedingly  glad  to  do  so,  and  was  soon 
engaged  in  attempts  at  conversation  with  the 
friendly  old  man  in  the  black  cassock  who  did 
his  best  to  make  her  welcome.  There  were  no 
more  difficulties  for  her  that  night,  except  that 
the  cure  had  very  limited  notions  as  to  the 
amount  of  water  she  required  for  washing. 

They  set  out  early  the  next  morning  on  their 
way  to  that  part  of  the  front  which  she  had 
particularly  asked  to  see.  The  long  straight 
poplar-bordered  road,  bright  with  friendly 
sunshine  now,  absorbed  her.  She  heard  the 
chatter  of  the  correspondents  at  her  side  as  in 
a  dream. 

"Have  you  read  Anatole  France?"  said  the 
Spaniard.  (He  was  anxious  for  improving 
conversation,  and  wore  a  velvet  coat  totally 
unsuited  to  the  expedition.)  But  May  Mar 
garet's  every  thought  was  plodding  along  with 
the  plodding  streams  of  dusty,  footsore  men, 
in  steel  hats,  and  she  did  not  answer.  She 
pointed  vaguely  to  the  women  working  in  the 
fields  to  save  the  harvest,  and  the  anti-aircraft 
guns  that  watched  the  sky  from  behind  the 
sheaves.  At  every  turn  she  saw  something 
that  reminded  her  of  things  she  had  seen  be 
fore,  in  some  previous  existence,  when  she  had 


MAY  MARGARET  223 

lived  in  the  life  of  her  lover  and  traveled 
through  it  all  with  his  own  eyes.  She  was 
passing  through  his  existence  again.  He  was 
part  of  all  this:  these  camps  by  the  roadside, 
where  soldiers,  brown  as  gipsies,  rambled 
about  with  buckets;  these  endless  processions 
of  motor-lorries,  with  men  and  munitions  and 
guns  all  streaming  to  the  north  on  every  road, 
as  if  whole  nations  were  setting  out  on  a  pil 
grimage  and  taking  their  possessions  with 
them;  these  endless  processions  of  closed  am 
bulances  returning,  marked  with  the  Red 
Cross. 

Once,  over  a  bare  brown  stretch  of  open 
country,  a  magnificent  body  of  Indian  cavalry 
swept  towards  them,  every  man  sitting  his 
horse  like  a  prince;  and  the  British  officers, 
with  their  sun-burned  faces  and  dusky  turbans, 
hardly  distinguishable  from  their  native 
troops. 

"Glorious,  aren't  they?'7  said  Sinclair,  lean 
ing  back  from  his  place  beside  the  chauffeur. 
"But  they  haven't  had  a  chance  yet.  If  only 
we  could  get  the  Boches  out  of  their  burrows 
and  loose  our  cavalry  at  them!" 

She  nodded  her  head ;  but  her  thoughts  were 
elsewhere.  This  picturesque  display  seemed 


224  WALKING  SHADOWS 

to  belong  to  a  bygone  age;  it  was  quite  unre 
lated  to  this  war  of  chemists  and  spectacled  old 
men  who  disbelieved  in  chivalry,  laughed  at 
right  and  wrong,  and  had  killed  the  happiness 
of  the  entire  world. 

She  noticed,  whenever  they  passed  a  vil 
lage  or  a  farm-house,  or  even  a  cattle-shed 
now,  that  the  smell  of  iodoform  brooded  over 
everything.  All  these  wounded  acres  of 
France  were  breathing  it  out  like  the  scent  of 
some  strange  new  summer  blossoms.  A  hun 
dred  yards  away  from  the  ruined  outhouses  of 
every  village  she  began  to  breathe  it.  Her 
senses  were  unusually  keen,  but  it  dominated 
the  summer  air  so  poignantly  that  she  could 
not  understand  why  these  meticulously  vivid 
men — the  foreign  correspondents — were  un 
aware  of  it.  It  turned  the  whole  countryside 
into  a  series  of  hospital  wards;  and  the  Greek 
was  now  disputing  with  the  Spaniard  about 
home-rule  for  Ireland. 

At  last,  in  the  distance,  they  heard  a  new 
sound  that  enlarged  the  horizon  as  when  one 
approaches  the  sea.  It  was  the  mutter  of  the 
guns,  a  deep  many-toned  thunder,  rolling  up 
and  dying  away,  but  without  a  single  break, 
incessant  as  the  sound  of  the  Atlantic  in  storm. 


MAY  MARGARET  225 

The  cars  halted  in  what  had  once  been  a 
village,  and  was  now  a  rubbish  heap  of  splin 
ters  and  scarred  walls  and  crumbling  mortar. 

The  correspondents  alighted  and  followed 
Captain  Crump  across  a  broad  open  plain, 
pitted  with  shell-holes.  The  incessant  thun 
der  of  the  guns  deepened  as  they  went. 

"Don't  touch  anything  without  consulting 
me,"  snapped  Crump  at  the  Spaniard,  who 
was  nosing  round  an  unexploded  shell  and 
thinking  of  souvenirs.  "The  Boches  have  a 
charming  trick  of  leaving  things  about  that 
may  go  off  in  your  hands.  A  chap  picked  up 
a  spiked  helmet  here  the  other  day.  They 
buried  him  in  the  graveyard  that  Mr.  Grant 
wants  to  see.  It's  a  very  small  grave.  There 
wasn't  much  left  of  him." 

The  burial-ground  lay  close  under  a  ridge 
of  hills,  and  they  approached  it  through  a 
maze  of  recently  captured  German  trenches. 
It  was  a  strange  piece  of  sad  ordered  garden 
ing  in  a  devastated  world.  Every  minute  or 
two  the  flash  and  shock  of  a  concealed  how 
itzer  close  at  hand  shook  the  loose  earth  on 
the  graves,  but  only  seemed  to  emphasize  the 
still  sleep  of  this  acre.  It  held  a  great  regi 
ment  of  graves,  mounds  of  fresh-turned  earth 


226  WALKING  SHADOWS 

in  soldierly  ranks,  most  of  them  marked  with 
tiny  wooden  crosses,  rough  bits  of  kindling 
wood.  Some  of  the  crosses  bore  names,  writ 
ten  in  pencil.  There  was  one  that  bore  the 
names  of  six  men,  and  the  grave  was  hardly 
large  enough  for  a  child.  They  had  been 
blown  to  pieces  by  a  single  shell. 

They  passed  through  the  French  section 
first.  Here  there  was  an  austere  poetry,  a 
simplicity  that  approached  the  sublime  in  the 
terrible  regularity  of  the  innumerably  re 
peated  inscription,  "Mort  pour  la  France." 
In  the  British  section  there  was  a  striking  con 
trast.  There  was  not  a  word  of  patriotism; 
but,  though  the  graves  were  equally  regular, 
an  individuality  of  inscription  that  interested 
the  Spanish  correspondent  greatly. 

"It  is  here  we  pass  from  Racine  to  Shake 
speare,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  wooden  cross 
that  bore  the  words : 

"In  loving  memory  of  Jim, 
From  his  old  pal, 
The  artful  dodger, 
'Gone  but  not  forgotten.'  " 

"No,  no,  no,"  cried  the  Greek  correspond 
ent,  greatly  excited  by  the  literary  suggestion. 


MAY  MARGARET  227 

"From  Flaubert  to  Dickens!  Is  it  not  so, 
Captain  Crump?" 

Captain  Crump  grunted  vaguely  and  moved 
on  towards  the  soldier  in  charge.  May  Mar 
garet  followed  him,  the  photograph  in  her 
hand. 

"We  want  to  find  number  forty-eight,"  said 
Captain  Crump. 

The  soldier  saluted  and  led  the  way  to  the 
other  end  of  the  ground.  Many  of  the  graves 
here  had  not  been  named.  There  had  evi 
dently  been  some  disaster  which  made  it  diffi 
cult.  Some  of  them  carried  the  identification 
disc. 

"This  is  number  forty-eight,  sir,"  said  the 
soldier,  pausing  before  a  mound  that  May 
Margaret  knew  already  by  heart.  "May  I 
look  at  the  photograph,  sir?  Yes.  You  see, 
that's  the  rosary — that  black  thing — round  the 
cross." 

"The  rosary!  I  don't  understand."  May 
Margaret  looked  at  the  string  of  beads  on  the 
cross  that  bore  the  name  of  Brian  Davidson. 

"I  suppose  he  was  a  Roman  Catholic,  sir. 
They  must  have  taken  it  from  the  body." 

"No,  he  was  not  a  Catholic,"  whispered 
May  Margaret.  She  felt  as  if  she  must  drop 


228  WALKING  SHADOWS 

on  her  knees  and  call  on  the  mute  earth  to 
speak,  to  explain,  to  tell  her  who  lay  beneath. 

"There  must  be  a  mistake,"  she  said  at  last, 
and  her  own  voice  rang  in  her  ears  like  the 
voice  of  a-stranger.  "I  must  find  out.  How 
can  I  find  out?" 

Her  face  was  bloodless  as  she  confronted 
Captain  Crump. 

"There's  some  terrible  mistake,"  she  said 
again.  "I  can't  face  his  people  at  home  till  I 
find  out.  He  may  be — "  But  that  awful 
word  of  hope  died  on  her  lips. 

"I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Captain  Crump. 
"It's  very  odd,  certainly;  but  I  shouldn't — er 
— hope  for  too  much.  You  see,  if  he  were 
living,  they  wouldn't  have  been  likely  to  over 
look  it.  It's  possible  that  he  may  be  there,  or 
there."  He  pointed  to  two  graves  without  a 
name.  "Or  again,  he  may  be  missing,  of 
course,  or  a  prisoner.  His  lot  are  down  at 
Arras  now.  We'll  get  into  touch  with  them 
to-morrow  and  I'll  make  inquiries.  You  want 
to  pass  a  night  in  the  trenches,  don't  you? 
I  think  it  can  be  arranged  for  you  to  go  to  that 
section  to-morrow  night.  Then  we  can  kill 
two  birds  with  one  stone." 

May     Margaret     thanked     him.     Behind 


MAY  MARGARET  229 

them,  she  heard,  with  that  strange  sense  of 
double  meanings  which  the  most  common 
place  accidents  of  life  can  awake  at  certain 
moments — the  voice  of  one  of  the  correspond 
ents,  still  arguing  with  the  others.  "Here,  if 
you  like,  is  Shakespeare,"  he  said: 

"How  should  I  your  true  love  know 
From  another  one" 

The  quotation,  lilted  inanely  as  a  nursery 
rime,  pierced  her  heart  like  a  flight  of  silver 
arrows. 

"You  have  not  a  very  pleasant  business," 
the  correspondent  continued,  addressing  a  sol 
dier  at  work  in  an  open  grave. 

"I've  'ad  two  years  in  the  trenches,  sir,  and 
I'm  glad  to  get  it,"  he  replied. 

"Little  Christian  crosses,  planted  against  the 
heathen,  creeping  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
Rhine,"  murmured  Julian  Sinclair,  on  the 
other  side  of  May  Margaret. 

The  multiplicity  of  the  ways  in  which  it 
seemed  possible  for  both  soldiers  and  civilians 
to  regard  the  war  was  beginning  to  rob  her  of 
the  power  to  think. 

On  their  way  back,  through  the  dusk,  they 
passed  a  body  of  men  marching  to  the  trenches, 


230  WALKING  SHADOWS 

with  a  song  that  she  had  heard  Brian  hum 
ming: 

"Fat  Fritz  went  out,  all  camouflaged,  like  a  beautiful 

bumble-bee, 
With   daffodil  stripes  and  'airy  legs  to  see  what  he 

could  see, 
By  the  light  of  the  moon,  in  No  Man's  Land,  he  climbed 

an  apple  tree 

And  he  put  on  his  big  round  spectacles,  to  look  for 
gay  Paree. 

But  I  don't  suppose  he'll  do  it  again 
For  months,  and  months,  and  months; 

But  I  don't  suppose  he'll  do  it  again 
For  months,  and  month,  and  months;  9 

For  Archie  is  only  a  third  class  shot, 
But  he  brought  him  down  at  once, 

AND 

I  don't  suppose  he'll  do  it  again 

For  months,  and  months,  and  months. 

Soon  afterwards,  with  all  these  themes 
interchanging  in  her  bewildered  mind,.  May 
Margaret  heard  Julian  Sinclair  calling 
through  the  dark  from  the  car  ahead :  "Take 
a  good  look  at  the  next  village;  it's  called 
Crecy."  The  stars  that  watched  the  ancient 
bowmen  had  nothing  new  to  tell  her ;  but  a  few 
minutes  later,  as  another  body  of  troops  came 


MAY  MARGARET  231 

tramping  through  the  dark  to  another  stanza 
of  their  song,  there  seemed  to  be'an  ancient  and 
unconquerable  mass  of  marching  harmonies 
within  the  lilt  of  the  Cockney.ballad;  like  the 
mass  of  the  sea  behind  the  breaking  wave : 

"'E  called  'em  the  Old  Contemptible*, 

But  'e  only  did  it  once, 
And  I  don't  suppose  'e'll  do  it  again, 
For  months,  and  months,  and  months." 

They  dined  at  the  chateau,  and  she  slipped 
away  early  to  the  house  of  the  cure.  Before 
she  slept,  she  took  out  Brian's  last  letter  and 
read  it.  She  sat  on  the  narrow  bed,  under  the 
little  black  crucifix  with  the  ivory  Christ  look 
ing  down  at  her  from  the  bare  wall.  She  was 
glad  that  it  was  there;  for  it  embodied- the 
master-thought  of  that  day's  pilgrimage. 
Never  before  had  she  realized  how  that  sym 
bol  was  dominating  this  war;  how  it  was  re 
peated  and  repeated  over  thousands  of  acres  of 
young  men's  graves;  and  with  what  a  new  sig 
nificance  the  wayside  crosses  of  France  were 
now  stretching  out  their  arms  in  the  night  of 
disaster. 

In  Brian's  letter  there  was  very  little  about 
himself.  He  had  always  been  somewhat  im 
patient  of  the  "lyrical  people,"  as  he  called 


232  WALKING  SHADOWS 

them,  who  were  "so  eloquently  introspective" 
about  the  war,  and  he  had  carried  his  preju 
dice  even  into  his  correspondence.  She  was 
reading  his  letter  again  to-night  because  she 
remembered  that  it  expressed  something  of  her 
own  bewilderment  at  the  multiplicity  of  ways 
in  which  people  were  talking  and  thinking  of 
the  international  tragedy.  "I  have  heard,"  he 
wrote,  "every  possible  kind  of  opinion  out 
here,  with  the  exception  of  one.  I  have  never 
heard  any  one  suggest  any  possible  end  for  this 
war  but  the  defeat  of  the  Hun.  But  I  have 
heard,  over  and  over  again,  ridicule  of  the 
idea  that  this  war  is  going  to  end  war,  or  even 
make  the  world  better. 

"Along  with  that,  I've  often  heard  praise 
of  the  very  militaristic  system  that  we  are 
trying  so  hard  to  abolish  altogether.  Of 
course,  this  is  only  among  certain  sets  of  men. 
But  this  war  has  become  a  war  of  ideas;  and 
ideas  are  not  always  contained  or  divided  by 
the  lines  of  trenches.  We  are  fighting  things 
out  amongst  ourselves,  in  all  the  belligerent 
countries,  and  the  most  crying  need  of  the 
Allies  to-day  is  a  leader  who  can  crystallize 
their  own  truest  thoughts  and  ideals  for 
them. 


MAY  MARGARET  233 

"You  know  what  my  dream  was,  always,  in 
the  days  when  I  was  trying  my  prentice  hand 
in  literature.  I  wanted  to  help  in  the  greatest 
work  of  modern  times — the  task  of  bringing 
your  country  and  mine  together.  Our  com 
mon  language  (and  that  implies  so  much  more 
than  people  realize)  is  the  greatest  political 
factor  in  the  modern  world;  and,  thank  God, 
it's  beyond  the  reach  of  the  politicians.  In 
England,  we  exaggerate  the  importance  of  the 
mere  politician.  We  do  not  realize  the  su 
preme  glory  of  our  own  inheritance;  or  even 
the  practical  aspects  of  it;  the  practical  value 
of  the  fact  that  every  city  and  town  and  village 
over  the  whole  of  your  continent  paid  homage 
to  Shakespeare  during  the  tercentenary.  Car- 
lyle  was  right  when  he  compared  that  part  of 
our  inheritance  with  the  Indian  Empire.  It 
is  in  our  literature  that  we  can  meet  and  read 
each  other's  hearts  and  minds,  and  that  has 
been  our  greatest  asset  during  the  war.  Think 
what  it  will  mean  when  two  hundred  million 
people,  thirty  years  hence,  in  North  America, 
are  reading  that  literature  and  sharing  it. 
Shelley  understood  it.  You  remember  what 
he  says  in  the  'Revolt  of  Islam.'  The  Ger 
mans  understand,  that's  why  they're  so  anx- 


234  WALKING  SHADOWS 

ious  to  introduce  compulsory  German  into 
your  schools  and  colleges.  But  our  own  reac 
tionaries  are  afraid  to  understand  it. 

"After  all,  this  war  is  only  a  continuation  of 
the  Revolutionary  war,  when  the  Englishmen 
who  signed  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
fought  an  army  of  hired  Germans,  directed  by 
Germans.  Even  their  military  maps  were 
drawn  up  in  German.  It's  the  same  war,  and 
the  same  cause,  and  I  believe  that  the  New 
World  eventually  will  come  into  it.  Then 
we  shall  have  a  real  leadership.  The  schem 
ing  reactionaries  in  Europe  will  fail  to  keep 
us  apart.  We  shall  yet  see  our  flags  united. 
And  then  despite  all  the  sneers  of  the  little 
folk,  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic,  we  shall 
be  able  to  suppress  barbarism  in  Europe  and 
say  (as  you  and  I  have  said)  :  Those  whom 
God  hath  joined  let  no  man  put  asunder. 

"There  seems  to  be  an  epidemic  of  verse 
among  the  armies.  I  haven't  caught  it  very 
badly  yet;  but  these  were  some  of  my  symp 
toms  in  a  spare  moment  last  week: 

"How  few  are  they  that  voyage  through  the  night, 

On  that  eternal  quest, 
For  that  strange  light  beyond  our  light, 
That  rest  beyond  our  rest. 


MAY  MARGARET  235 

dnd  they  who,  seeking  beauty,  once  descry 

Her  face,  to  most  unknown; 
Thenceforth  like  changelings  from  the  sky 

Must  walk  their  road  alone. 

So  once  I  dreamed.     So  idle  was  my  mood; 

But  now,  before  these  eyes, 
From  those  foul  trenches,  black  with  blood> 

W hat  radiant  legions  rise. 

And  loveliness  over  the  wounded  earth  awakes 

Like  wild-flowers  in  the  Spring. 
Out  of  the  mortal  chrysalis  breaks 

Immortal  wing  on  wing. 

They  rise  like  flowers,  they  wander  on  wings  of  light, 

Through  realms  beyond  our  ken. 
The  loneliest  soul  is  companied  to-night 

By  hosts  of  unknown  men." 

II 

At  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning,  the  two 
cars  were  moving  at  sixty  miles  an  hour  along 
a  road  that  ran  parallel  with  the  German 
trenches.  There  was  a  slight  screen  of  canvas 
to  hide  the  traffic,  for  the  road  by  Dead-ManV 
Corner  was  not  the  safest  way  into  Arras  at 
that  time.  But  they  reached  the  city  without 
misadventure,  and  May  Margaret  felt  nearer 
now  than  ever  to  the  secret  of  the  quest. 


236  WALKING  SHADOWS 

No  dream  was  ever  so  strange  as  this  great 
echoing  shell  of  the  deserted  city  where  he, 
too,  had  walked  so  recently.  He,  too,  had 
passed  along  these  cracked  pavements,  keep 
ing  close  to  the  wall,  in  order  to  escape  ob 
servation  from  the  enemy,  whose  lines  ran 
through  one  end  of  the  city  at  this  moment. 
He  had  seen  these  pitiful  interiors  of  shat 
tered  houses,  where  sometimes  the  whole  front 
had  been  blown  away,  leaving  the  furniture 
still  intact  on  two  floors,  and  even  pictures,  a 
little  askew,  on  the  walls.  He  had  seen  that 
little  black  crucifix  over  that  bed ;  crossed  this 
grass-grown  square;  and  gone  into  the  shat 
tered  railway-station,  where  the  many-colored 
tickets  were  strewn  like  autumn  leaves  over  the 
glass-littered  floor.  The  Spaniard  filled  his 
pockets  with  them. 

They  went  down  a  narrow  street  to  the  ruins 
of  the  cathedral.  On  one  of  the  deserted 
houses  there  was  a  small  placard  advertising 
the  Paris  edition  of  a  London  paper,  the  only 
sign  of  the  outside  world  in  all  that  echoing 
solitude.  The  neutrals  rejoiced  greatly  be 
fore  a  deserted  insurance  office,  which  still  dis 
played  an  advertisement  of  its  exceedingly 
reasonable  rates  for  the  lives  of  peaceful  citi- 


MAY  MARGARET  237 

zens.  Their  merriment  was  stopped  abruptly 
by  a  hollow  boom  that  shook  the  whole  city 
and  rumbled  echoing  along  the  deserted  streets 
from  end  to  end. 

"That's  a  Boche  shell,"  said  Crump.  "It 
sounds  as  if  they've  got  the  cathedral  again." 

At  noon  they  lunched  under  the  lee  of  a  hill 
just  outside  Arras,  that  had  been  drenched 
with  blood  a  few  weeks  earlier.  The  great 
seas  of  thunder  ebbed  and  flowed  incessantly 
from  sky  to  sky,  as  if  the  hill  were  the  one 
firm  island  in  the  universe  and  all  the  rest 
were  breaking  up  and  washing  around  them. 
The  amazing  incongruity  of  things  bewildered 
May  Margaret  again.  It  was  more  fantastic 
than  any  dream.  They  sat  there  at  ease,  eat 
ing  chicken,  munching  sandwiches,  filling 
their  cups  with  red  wine  and  white,  and  end 
ing  with  black  coffee,  piping  hot  from  the 
thermos  bottle.  Great  puffs  of  brown  smoke 
rose  in  the  distance  where  our  shells  were 
dropping  along  the  German  line.  It  looked 
as  if  the  trees  were  walking  out  from  a  certain 
distant  wood.  Little  blue  rings  of  smoke  rose 
from  the  peaceful  cigarettes  around  her. 
Bees  and  butterflies  came  and  went  through 
the  sunshine;  and,  in  the  stainless  blue  sky 


238  WALKING  SHADOWS 

overhead  there  was  a  rush  and  rumor  as  of 
invisible  trains  passing  to  and  fro.  The  neu 
trals  amused  themselves  by  trying  to  dis 
tinguish  between  our  own  and  the  enemy 
shells. 

At  two  o'clock  Crump  rose.  "I'll  take  you 
along  now,  Grant,  if  you  are  ready,"  he  said. 
"The  rest  of  you  wait  here.  I  shall  be  back 
in  about  ten  minutes." 

May  Margaret  stumbled  after  him  down 
the  hill.  At  the  foot,  a  soldier  was  waiting; 
and,  hardly  conscious  of  the  fact  that  she  had 
exchanged  one  guide  for  another,  she  found 
herself  plodding  silently  beside  him  on  her 
unchanging  quest,  toward  the  communication 
trenches. 

"What  do  they  think  about  things  in  Eng 
land,  sir?"  said  her  new  companion  at  last, 
with  a  curiously  suppressed  eagerness. 

"They  are  very  hopeful,"  said  May  Mar 
garet. 

"When  do  they  think  it  will  be  over?" 

"Some  of  them  say  in  six  months." 

"Ah,  yes.  I've  been  here  three  years  now, 
and  they  always  say  that.  At  the  end  of  the 
six  months  they'll  say  it  again." 

It  was  the  first  open  note  of  depression  that 


MAY  MARGARET  239 

May  Margaret  had  heard.     "Do  most  of  the 
men  feel  like  that?"  she  said. 

"They  don't  say  so,  sir,  but  they  all  want  it 
to  be  over."  Then  he  added,  with  the  dogged- 
ness  of  his  kind,  "Not  till  we  get  what  we're 
fighting  for,  of  course.  You're  a  correspond 
ent,  sir,  aren't  you?  Well,  I  never  seen  the 
real  fax  put  in  the  papers  yet.  There  was 
one  of  these  soldier  writers  the  other  day.  I 
saw  his  book  in  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  hut.  He 
said  that  the  only  time  he  nearly  broke  his 
heart  was  when  there  was  a  rumor  that  Ger 
many  was  asking  for  peace  before  he  was  able 
to  get  into  it  hisself.  That's  what  I  call 
bloody  selfish,  sir.  All  this  poytry!  (he  spat 
into  a  shell-hole)  making  pictures  out  of  it 
and  talking  about  their  own  souls.  Mind  you 
I'm  all  for  finishing  it  properly;  but  it  ain't 
right,  the  way  they  look  at  it.  It's  like 
saying  they're  glad  the  Belgians  had  their 
throats  cut  because  it's  taught  their  own 
bloody  selves  the  beauty  of  sacrifice.  If  what 
they  say  is  true,  why  in  the  hell  do  they  want 
the  war  ever  to  stop  at  all?  P'raps  if  it  went 
on  for  ever,  we  should  all  of  us  learn  the 
bloody  beauty  of  it,  and  keep  on  learning  it 
till  there  wasn't  any  one  left.  There  was  a 


240  WALKING  SHADOWS 

member  of  Parliament  out  here  the  other  day. 
He  saw  three  poor  chaps  trying  to  wash  in  a 
mine-crater  full  of  muddy  water.  Covered 
with  lice  they  was.  The  paper  described  it 
afterwards.  The  right  honorable  gentleman 
laughed  'artily,  it  said,  same  as  they  say  about 
royalty.  Always  laughing  'artily.  P'raps  he 
didn't  laugh.  I  dunno  about  that.  But  if  he 
did,  I'd  like  him  to  'ave  a  taste  of  the  fun  his- 
self." 

They  were  entering  the  long  tunnel  of  the 
communication-trench  now.  The  soldier 
went  ahead,  and  May  Margaret  followed, 
through  smells  of  earth,  and  the  reek  of  stale 
uniforms,  for  a  mile  or  more,  till  they  came 
to  the  alert  eyes  along  the  fire-step  of  the  front 
line  trench. 

"Here's  Major  Hilton,  sir."  A  lean  young 
man  with  a  thin  aquiline  nose  and  a  face  of 
Indian  red  approached  them,  stepping  like  a 
cat  along  the  trench. 

"Mr.  Grant,"  he  said. 

May  Margaret  nodded,  and  they  were  about 
to  shake  hands,  when  one  side  of  the  trench 
seemed  to  rise  up  and  smash  against  their 
faces,  with  a  roar  that  stunned  them.  May 
Margaret  picked  herself  up  at  once,  wiping 


MAY  MARGARET  241 

the  bits  of  grit  out  of  her  eyes.  The  bombard 
ment  appeared  to  be  growing  in  intensity. 

"That  was  pretty  near,"  said  Major  Hilton. 
"You'd  better  come  into  my  dugout  till  this 
blows  over." 

He  led  the  way  into  his  gloomy  little  cav 
ern.  It  was  not  much  of  a  shelter  from  a 
direct  hit;  but  it  would  protect  them  from 
flying  splinters  at  least. 

"Mr.  Davidson  was  my  friend,"  said  May 
Margaret  at  once.  "I  know  his  people.  I 
think  there  must  be  some  mistake  about  .  .  . 
about  the  grave." 

"You're  not  a  relative  of  his,  are  you?"  said 
Major  Hilton.  "Had  you  known  him  for 
long?" 

"No.     Less  than  a  year." 

"Well,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  there 
was  a  mistake.  We  discovered  it  a  few  hours 
after  it  was  made;  but  we  thought  it  better 
not  to  upset  his  people  by  giving  them  further 
details." 

"He  was  killed,  then,"  May  Margaret  whis 
pered  ;  and,  if  the  darkness  of  the  dugout  had 
not  veiled  her  face,  Major  Hilton  would  not 
have  continued. 

"Yes.     It  was  a  trench  raid.     The  Boches 


242  WALKING  SHADOWS 

took  a  section  of  our  trenches.  When  we  re 
covered  it,  we  found  him.  You'd  better  not 
tell  his  people,  but  I  don't  mind  telling  you. 
It  was  a  pretty  bad  case." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"One  of  those  filthy  Boche  tricks.  They'd 
nailed  him  up  against  the  lining  of  the  trench 
with  bayonets.  He  was  still  alive  when  we 
found  him.  But  they'll  get  it  all  back. 
We're  going  to  give  'em  hell  to-night." 

May  Margaret  was  silent  for  so  long  that 
Major  Hilton  peered  at  her  more  closely. 
Her  white  face  looked  like  a  bruised  thing  in 
the  darkness. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "Perhaps  I  shouldn't 
have  told  you.  They  have  done  so  much  of 
that  kind  of  thing,  I  suppose  we've  got  used 
to  it.  Well,  you've  been  tramping  about  all 
day,  and  if  I  were  you,  as  you're  going  to 
spend  the  night  here,  I  should  settle  down  for 
a  bit  in  the  dugout.  The  bombardment  seems 
to  be  easing  off  a  little,  and  you'll  want  to  be 
awake  all  night.  There'll  be  some  sights  com 
ing  on  of  the  picturesque  kind — fireworks  and 
things,  which  is  what  you  want,  I  suppose,  for 
the  blessed  old  public." 

Far  away,  in  another  section  of  the  trenches, 


MAY  MARGARET  243 

there  was  a  burst  of  cheering.  Major  Hilton 
pricked  up  his  ears  to  listen;  but  it  was 
drowned  immediately  in  another  blast  outside 
that  sealed  the  mouth  of  the  dugout  like  a 
blow  from  a  gigantic  hammer  and  plunged 
them  into  complete  darkness  thick  with  dust 
and  sand. 

"Are  you  all  right?"  said  Hilton,  in  a  mo 
ment  or  two.  "They've  blown  the  parapet 
over  us.  Our  chaps  will  soon  get  us  out." 

They  sat  down  and  waited.  The  sound  of 
their  rescuers'  shovels  was  followed  almost 
immediately  by  the  pulling  away  of  a  sand 
bag,  and  the  dusty  daylight  filtered  in  again, 
bringing  with  it  another  roar  of  cheering, 
nearer  now,  and  rolling  along  the  trenches 
like  an  Atlantic  breaker. 

"What  the  hell  are  they  shouting  about?" 
Hilton  grunted,  as  he  scrambled  through  the 
opening.  May  Margaret  was  about  to  follow 
him,  when  the  abrupt  answer  struck  her  mo 
tionless. 

"America  has  declared  war,  sir." 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Yes,  sir.  They  are  passing  the  President's 
message  along  the  line.  It  looks  as  if  they 
mean  business." 


244  WALKING  SHADOWS 

May  Margaret  had  moved  further  back 
into  the  darkness  of  the  dugout.  She  was 
breathing  quickly,  panting  like  a  thirsty  dog. 
She  dropped  on  her  knees  by  an  old  packing- 
case  in  the  corner. 

"Thank  God.  Thank  God,"  she  repeated, 
with  her  eyes  shut.  Then  the  tears  came,  and 
her  whole  body  shook. 

A  hand  touched  her  shoulder.  She  rose  to 
her  feet  and  saw  the  bewildered  face  of  Major 
Hilton,  peering  again  at  her  own. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "It's  the  first  time 
I've  done  it  since  I  was  a  kid;  but  IVe  been 
hoping  for  this  ever  since  the  beginning.  It's 
my  country,  you  see." 

"I've  just  been  looking  at  the  President's 
message,"  said  Hilton.  "I'm  an  Englishman, 
but — if  a  democracy  can  discipline  itself — I'm 
not  sure  that  yours  won't  be  the  greatest  coun 
try  in  the  world.  I  suppose  it  must  be,  or  the 
Lord  wouldn't  have  entrusted  so  much  to  you. 
He  gave  you  the  best  that  we  ever  had  to  give, 
and  that  was  our  Englishman,  George  Wash 
ington  ;  and  the  best  thing  that  George  Wash 
ington  ever  did,  was  to  fight  the  German  King 
and  his  twenty  thousand  Hessians.  Eh, 
what?" 


MAY  MARGARET  245 

It  was  a  little  after  dusk  when  the  unex 
pected  happened.  There  had  been  a  lull  in 
the  bombardment;  and,  on  Major  Hilton's 
advice,  May  Margaret  was  resting  in  the  dug 
out  in  readiness  for  the  long  wakeful  night  of 
the  trenches. 

She  lay  there,  dazed  as  from  shell-shock  by 
the  account  of  Brian's  death;  and  the  declara 
tion  of  war  from  her  own  country  had  burst 
upon  her  with  an  equal  violence,  leaving  her 
stunned  in  a  kind  of  "No  Man's  Land,"  a 
desolate  hell,  somewhere  between  despair  and 
triumph.  Her  world  had  broken  up.  Her 
mind  was  no  longer  her  own.  Her  thoughts 
were  helpless  things  between  enormous  con 
flicting  forces ;  and,  as  if  to  escape  from  their 
rending  clutches,  as  if  to  cling  to  the  present 
reality,  she  whispered  to  herself  the  words  of 
the  wounded  soldier  at  Charing  Cross  station: 
"If  you  meet  him,  give  him  hell  for  me! 
Give  him  hell  for  me."  It  seemed  as  if  it 
were  Brian  himself  speaking.  Once,  with  a 
swift  sense  of  horror,  catching  herself  upon  the 
verge  of  insanity,  she  found  that  her  imagina 
tion  was  furtively  beginning  to  picture  his  last 
agony,  and  she  stopped  it,  screwing  her  face 
up,  like  a  child  pulling  faces  at  a  nightmare, 


246  WALKING  SHADOWS 

and  making  inarticulate  sounds  to  drive  it 
away. 

Of  one  thing  she  was  quite  certain  now. 
She  did  not  wish  to  live  any  longer  in  a  world 
where  these  things  were  done.  She  meant,  by 
hook  or  by  crook,  to  get  to  the  dangerous  bit 
of  the  trench,  where  our  men  were  only  sepa 
rated  by  six  yards  from  the  enemy,  and  to  stay 
there  until  she  was  killed.  Even  if  she 
couldn't  throw  bombs  herself,  she  supposed 
that  she  could  hand  them  up  to  others.  And 
any  thought  that  conflicted  with  this  idea  she 
suppressed,  automatically,  with  her  monoto 
nous  echo  of  the  wounded  soldier,  "Give  them 
hell  for  me." 

But  she  was  spared  any  further  trouble 
about  the  execution  of  her  plans;  and  she 
knew,  at  once,  that  she  had  come  to  the  end 
of  her  quest,  when  she  heard  the  quick  sharp 
cries  of  warning  outside. 

It  was  a  trench-raid,  brief,  and  unimportant 
from  a  military  point  of  view.  The  news 
papers  told  London,  on  the  next  day,  that  noth 
ing  of  importance  had  happened.  Half  a 
dozen  revolvers  cracked.  There  were  curses 
and  groans,  a  sound  of  soft  thudding  blows  and 
grunting,  gasping  men,  followed  by  a  loud 


MAY  MARGARET  247 

pig-like  squeal.  Then  May  Margaret  saw 
three  faces  peering  cautiously  into  the  dugout, 
faces  of  that  strange  brutality,  heavy-boned, 
pig-eyed,  evil-skulled,  which  has  impressed 
itself  upon  the  whole  world  as  a  distinct  re 
version  from  all  civilized  types  of  humanity. 
She  knew  them,  as  one  recognizes  the  smell 
of  carrion ;  and  her  whole  soul  exulted  as  she 
seized  her  supreme  chance  of  striking  at  the 
evil  thing.  She  had  picked  up  a  revolver  al 
most  unconsciously,  and  without  pausing  to 
think  she  fired  three  times  with  a  steady  hand. 
Two  of  them  she  knew  that  she  had  killed. 
The  third  had  been  too  quick  for  her,  and  in 
another  second  she  was  down  on  her  back,  with 
a  blood-greased  boot  on  her  throat,  and  a 
throng  of  evil-smelling  cattle  around  her. 
Unhappily,  they  did  not  kill  her  at  once;  and 
so  the  discovery  was  made,  amidst  a  storm  of 
guttural  exclamations. 

When  the  trench  was  retaken,  half  an  hour 
later,  a  further  discovery  was  made  by  Major 
Hilton.  A  locket  containing  a  photograph  of 
Brian  Davidson  was  buried  in  what  remained 
of  her  left  breast,  as  if  it  had  been  trying  to 
hide  in  her  heart.  It  was  almost  the  only 
thing  about  her  that  was  unhurt 


248  WALKING  SHADOWS 

Major  Hilton  made  no  explanations;  but 
when  the  body  was  removed,  he  gave  strict 
orders  for  it  to  be  buried  by  the  side  of  Lieu 
tenant  Davidson. 

A  week  later,  Mr.  Harvey,  of  the  Chicago 
Bulletin,  was  informed  that  his  correspondent, 
Mr.  Martin  Grant,  had  died  of  pneumonia. 
The  authorities  left  the  responsibility  of  in 
forming  others,  who  might  be  interested,  to  his 
capable  hands. 

He  went  to  see  Julian  Sinclair  about  it;  but 
he  could  not  discover  whether  that  sincerely 
regretful  young  diplomat  with  the  dazzling 
smile  and  the  delightful  manners  knew  any 
thing  more.  It  may  have  been  a  coincidence 
that,  shortly  afterwards,  Mr.  Harvey  was  re 
called  to  the  shores  of  Lake  Michigan,  and 
replaced  by  another  manager. 


IX 
MAROONED 


RACHEL  HEPBURN  believed  that 
her  first  lover  had  been  drawn  to  her — 
when  she  was  twenty-two  years  old — 
by  the  way  in  which  she  played  the  violin. 
She  played  it  remarkably  well;  and  she  was 
also  exceedingly  pretty,  in  a  frank  open-air 
fashion.  Until  she  was  seventeen,  she  had 
lived  on  the  mountainous  coast  of  Cumber 
land,  where  she  rode  astride,  and  swam  half  a 
mile  every  morning  before  breakfast.  Her 
family  nicknamed  her  "the  Shetland  Pony"; 
and  that  was  her  picture  to  the  life,  as  she 
used  to  come  in  from  her  swim,  with  her  face 
glowing  and  her  dark  eyes  like  mountain 
pools,  and  the  thick  mane  of  hair  blowing 
about  her  broad  forehead.  Her  sturdy  build 
helped  the  picture  at  the  time;  but  she  had 
shot  up  in  height  since  then,  and  the  phrase 
was  no  longer  applicable.  At  twenty-four, 

249 


250  WALKING  SHADOWS 

she  became  beautiful,  and  her  music  began  to 
show  traces  of  genius.  Unfortunately,  she 
had  the  additional  attraction  of  ten  thousand 
pounds  a  year  in  her  own  right;  and,  when  the 
marriage  settlement  was  discussed,  she  pro 
posed  to  share  the  money  with  her  three 
younger  sisters. 

The  young  man  behaved  very  badly.  She 
told  him — very  quietly — that  this  was  the  re 
sult  of  her  own  folly;  for,  in  her  family, 
hitherto,  marriages  had  always  been  "ar 
ranged."  He  replied — for  he  was  an  intel 
lectual  young  man,  who  understood  women, 
and  read  the  most  advanced  novelists — that 
she  was  one  of  those  who  were  ruining  Eng 
land  with  their  feudal  ideas.  Then  they 
parted,  the  young  man  cursing  under  his 
breath,  and  Rachel  lilting  the  ballad  to  which 
she  had  hitherto  attributed  her  good  fortune. 

"Maxwelton's  braes  are  bonnie,  where  early  fa's  the  dew, 
And  it's  there  that  Annie  Laurie  g'led  me  her  promise 

true, 

Gi'ed  me  her  promise  true,  which  ne'er  forgot  shall  be, 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie,  I'd  lay  me  doon  and  dee'1 

He  had  quoted  it  so  often  in  his  letters  that 
she  was  justified,  perhaps,  in  thinking  that  it 


MAROONED  251 

had  influenced  her  fate.  "You  know,  darling, 
that  those  words  were  supposed  to  tell  the  love 
of  a  soldier,  who  died  in  Flanders,  fighting  for 
England,  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  and 
when  you  sing  them,  I  feel  that  I,  too,  .  .  ." 
So  it  was  the  obvious  thing  to  toss  at  him  as  she 
went  through  the  door,  holding  her  head  up 
almost  as  gallantly  as  a  soldier.  But  he  didn't 
seem  to  mind,  and  the  parting  was  final. 

Rachel,  apparently,  minded  very  much  in 
deed  ;  but  she  kept  it  to  herself  and  her  violin, 
till  on  a  certain  day,  she  decided  that  she  must 
escape  from  all  her  old  surroundings  and 
forget. 

Her  guardian  was  the  only  person  she  con 
sulted,  and  he  made  no  criticism  of  her  scheme 
of  travel  so  far  as  she  divulged  it.  She  had 
been  brought  up  to  complete  freedom,  while 
her  parents  were  alive,  and  in  the  six  years 
since  their  death,  she  had  proved  that  she  was 
capable  of  taking  care  of  herself.  He  was 
wise  or  unwise  enough  not  to  let  her  know  that 
he  understood  her  trouble.  But  he  tried  to 
express  a  certain  sympathy  in  his  gruff  parting 
words,  "London  is  a  grimy  cavern." 

"Yes,  and  the  people  are  grimy,  too,"  she 
replied,  waving  her  hand  to  him,  as  she  went 


252  WALKING  SHADOWS 

out  into  the  fog.  She  looked  brighter  than 
she  had  looked  for  months  past.  His  last 
impression  of  her  was  that  she  looked  as  roses 
would  look  if  they  could  wear  furs  and  carry 
stars  in  their  eyes. 

She  had  been  studying  the  sailings  of  the 
ocean-steamers  for  some  time,  but  it  was  not 
her  intention  to  follow  the  traveled  routes 
more  than  was  necessary.  Her  brain  was 
busy  with  a  new  music,  the  music  of  the  names 
in  a  hundred  tales  that  she  had  read.  The 
Golden  Gate  and  Rio  Grande  called  to  her 
like  chords  in  a  Beethoven  symphony.  Yoko 
hama  and  Singapore  stirred  her  like  Rossini. 
But  it  was  the  folk-song  of  travel  that  she 
wanted,  something  wilder  and  sweeter  even 
than  Tahiti,  some  fortunate  Eden  island  in 
the  South  Seas. 

Egypt  and  Ceylon  were  only  incidents  on 
her  way.  They  only  set  the  fever  burning  a 
little  more  restlessly  in  her  veins;  and  her 
first  moment  of  content  was  when  the  yacht  of 
thirty  tons,  which  she  chartered  in  San  Diego, 
carried  her  out  to  the  long  heave  of  the  Pa 
cific,  and  turned  southward  on  the  endless  trail 
to  the  Happy  Islands. 

This  was  a  part  of  her  scheme  about  which 


MAROONED  253 

she  had  not  consulted  any  one  at  home,  or  she 
might  have  received  some  good  advice  about 
the  choice  of  her  ship.  It  was  a  sturdy  little 
craft,  with  small  but  excellent  cabins  for  her 
self  and  her  maid.  The  captain  and  his  wife 
were  apparently  created  for  her  special  bene 
fit,  being  very  capable  people,  with  the  quality 
of  effacing  themselves.  The  crew,  of  half  a 
dozen  Kanakas  in  white  shirts  and  red  pareos, 
was  picturesque  and  remote  enough  from  all 
the  associations  of  cities  to  satisfy  her  desire 
for  isolation. 

The  maid  was  the  only  mistake,  she  thought, 
and  she  did  not  discover  this  until  they  had 
been  a  fortnight  at  sea.  Her  own  maid  had 
fallen  ill  at  an  early  stage  of  her  travels,  and 
had  been  sent  home  from  Cairo.  Rachel  had 
engaged  this  new  one  in  San  Diego,  chiefly 
because  she  thought  it  necessary  to  take  some 
body  with  her.  When  Marie  Mendoza  had 
come  to  do  Rachel's  hair  at  San  Diego,  she 
had  a  somewhat  pathetic  story  to  tell  about  a 
husband  who  had  deserted  her  and  forced  her 
to  work  for  her  living.  Rachel  thought  there 
might  be  two  sides  to  the  story  when  she  dis 
covered  that  the  captain  was  playing  the  part 
of  Samson  to  this  Delilah.  It  was  a  vivid 


254  WALKING  SHADOWS 

moonlight  picture  that  she  saw  in  the  bows  one 
night,  when  she  had  come  up  on  deck  unex 
pectedly  for  a  breath  of  air.  Captain  Ryan 
was  an  ardent  wooer,  and  he  did  not  see  her. 
Marie  Mendoza  looked  rather  like  a  rainbow 
in  the  arms  of  a  black-bearded  gorilla,  and 
Rachel  retired  discreetly,  hoping  that  it  was 
merely  a  temporary  aberration. 

She  would  have  been  more  disturbed,  prob 
ably,  if  she  had  heard  a  little  of  the  conversa 
tion  of  this  precious  pair. 

"I  tell  you,  it's  a  cinch,  Mickey.  I  never 
seen  pearls  like  'em.  They're  worth  fifty 
thousand  dollars  in  Tiffany's,  if  they're  worth 
a  cent.  She  keeps  'em  locked  up  in  her 
steamer-trunk,  but  I  seen  her  take  'em  out 
several  times." 

"Well,  I've  been  hunting  pearls  up  and 
down  the  South  Seas  for  twenty  years,  and 
never  had  a  chance  of  making  good  like  this." 

But  Rachel  did  not  hear  the  conversation,  or 
she  might  have  been  able  to  change  the  course 
of  events  considerably.  She  might  even  have 
taken  an  opportunity  of  explaining  to  Marie 
that  the  real  pearls  were  in  the  bank  at  home, 
and  that  the  necklace  in  her  trunk  was  a  clever 
imitation,  useful  when  she  wished  to  adorn 


MAROONED  255 

herself  without  too  much  responsibility,  and 
worth  about  thirty-five  pounds  in  London,  or 
perhaps  a  little  more  than  one  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  in  New  York. 

But  Rachel  knew  nothing  of  all  this ;  and  so, 
on  a  certain  morning,  when  the  Seamew 
dropped  anchor  off  the  coral  island  of  her 
dreams,  she  went  ashore  without  any  misgiv 
ings.  It  was  an  island  paradise,  not  recog 
nized  by  any  map  that  she  had  seen,  though 
Captain  Ryan  seemed  to  know  all  about  it. 
Rachel  had  particularly  wanted  to  hear  the 
real  music  of  the  islanders,  and  Captain  Ryan 
had  assured  her  that  she  would  find  it  at  its 
best  among  the  inhabitants  of  this  island,  who 
had  been  unspoiled  by  travelers,  and  yet  were 
among  the  most  gentle  of  the  natives  of  the 
South  Seas.  Marie  Mendoza  pleaded  a  head 
ache,  and  remained  on  board;  but  the  Cap 
tain  and  his  wife  accompanied  Rachel  up 
the  white  beach,  leaving  the  boat  in  charge  of 
the  Kanakas.  A  throng  of  brown-skinned, 
flower-wreathed  islanders  watched  them  tim 
idly  from  under  the  first  fringe  of  palm  trees; 
but  the  Captain  knew  how  to  ingratiate  him 
self;  and,  after  certain  gifts  had  been  prof 
fered  to  the  bolder  natives,  the  rest  came  for- 


256  WALKING  SHADOWS 

ward  with  their  own  gifts  of  flowers  and  long 
stems  of  yellow  fruit.  Two  young  goddesses 
seized  Rachel  by  the  hands,  and  examined  her 
clothes,  while  the  rest  danced  round  her  like 
the  figures  from  the  Hymn  to  Pan  in  "En- 
dymion." 

Before  the  morning  was  over,  Rachel  had 
made  firm  friends  of  these  two  maidens,  who 
rejoiced  in  the  names  of  Tinovao  and  Amaru ; 
and,  when  she  signified  to  them  that  she 
wanted  to  swim  in  the  lagoon,  they  danced  off 
with  her  in  an  ecstasy  of  mirth  at  the  Euro 
pean  bathing  dress  which  she  carried  over  her 
arm,  to  their  own  favorite  bathing  beach, 
which  was  hidden  from  the  landing-place  by 
a  palm-tufted  promontory. 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  later  when  she 
returned,  radiant,  with  her  radiant  compan 
ions.  She  was  a  superb  swimmer,  and  she 
had  lost  all  her  troubles  for  the  time  in  that 
rainbow-colored  revel.  She  thought  of  tell 
ing  the  Captain  that  they  would  stay  here  for 
some  days.  She  wanted  to  drink  in  the  beauty 
of  the  island,  and  make  it  her  own ;  to  swim  in 
the  lagoon,  and  bask  in  the  healing  sun;  to 
walk  through  the  palms  at  dusk,  and  listen  to 
the  songs  of  the  islanders.  But  where  was  the 


MAROONED  257 

Captain?  Surely,  this  was  the  landing- 
place.  There  were  the  foot-prints  and  the 
mark  of  the  boat  on  the  beach.  Then  she  saw 
— with  a  quick  contraction  of  the  heart — not 
only  that  the  boat  was  missing,  but  that  there 
was  no  sign  of  the  yacht.  She  stared  at  the 
vacant  circle  of  the  sea,  and  could  find  no  trace 
of  it.  There  was  no  speck  on  that  blazing 
sapphire. 

II 

Her  last  doubt  as  to  whether  she  had  been 
deliberately  marooned  was  removed  by  Tino- 
vao,  who  pointed  to  a  heap  of  her  belongings 
that  had  been  dumped  on  the  beach,  all  in 
accordance  with  the  best  sea-traditions,  though 
it  was  due  in  this  case  to  a  sentimental  spasm 
on  the  part  of  Marie  Mendoza,  who  remem 
bered  the  kindness  of  Rachel  at  San  Diego. 

The  heap  was  a  small  one.  But  Rachel  was 
glad  to  see  that  it  included  her  violin-case. 

She  knew  that  her  stay  was  like  to  be  a  long 
one.  They  had  been  looking  for  islands  out 
of  the  way  of  ships ;  and  she  knew  that  it  might 
even  be  some  years  before  another  sail  ap 
peared  on  that  stainless  horizon.  The  thieves 
would  disappear,  and  they  were  not  likely  to 


258  WALKING  SHADOWS 

talk.  Her  own  movements  had  been  so  erratic 
that  she  doubted  whether  her  friends  could 
trace  her.  But  she  took  it  all  very  pluckily; 
so  that  the  round-eyed  Amaru  and  Tinovao 
were  unable  to  guess  the  full  meaning  of  her 
plight.  They  came  to  the  conclusion,  and  Ra 
chel  thought  it  best  to  encourage  them  in  it, 
that  she  was  voluntarily  planning  to  live 
amongst  them  for  a  little  while,  and  that  the 
yacht  would  of  course  return  for  her.  They 
had  heard  of  white  people  doing  these  strange 
things,  and  they  were  delighted  at  the  pros 
pect. 

In  a  very  short  time,  they  had  lodged  Rachel 
in  a  hut  of  palm  leaves,  with  all  the  fruits  of 
the  island  at  her  door.  They  carried  up  the 
small  heap  of  her  possessions,  and  she  gave 
them  each  a  little  mirror  from  her  dressing 
bag,  which  lifted  them  into  the  seventh 
heaven.  Thenceforward,  they  were  her  de 
voted  slaves.  Rachel  discovered,  moreover, 
while  they  were  turning  over  her  possessions 
and  examining  her  clothes,  that  her  ignorance 
of  their  language  was  but  a  slight  barrier 
to  understanding.  They  communicated,  it 
seemed,  by  a  kind  of  wireless  telegraphy, 
through  that  universal  atmosphere  of  their 


MAROONED  259 

sex.  They  helped  her  to  do  her  hair;  and,  as 
it  fell  over  her  shoulders,  they  held  it  up  to 
one  another,  admiring  its  weight  and  beauty. 
When  it  was  dark,  there  came  a  sound  of  sing 
ing  from  the  beach;  and  they  crowned  her 
with  fresh  frangipanni  blossoms,  and  led  her 
out  like  a  bride,  to  hear  the  songs  of  the 
islanders. 

It  was  a  night  of  music.  In  the  moonlight, 
on  the  moon-white  sands,  a  few  of  the  younger 
islanders,  garlanded  like  the  sunburnt  lovers 
of  Theocritus,  danced  from  time  to  time;  but, 
for  the  most  part,  they  were  in  a  restful  mood, 
attuned  to  the  calm  breathing  of  the  sea. 
Their  plaintive  songs  and  choruses  rose  and 
fell  as  quietly  as  the  night-wind  among  the 
palms;  and  Rachel  thought  she  had  never 
heard  or  seen  anything  more  exquisite.  The 
beauty  of  the  night  was  deepened  a  thousand 
fold  by  her  new  loneliness.  The  music 
plucked  at  her  heart-strings.  Beautiful 
shapes  passed  her,  that  made  her  think  of 
Keats : 

"Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain" 

She  murmured  the  lines  to  herself;  .and 


260  WALKING  SHADOWS 

while  her  lips  yet  moved,  a  young  islander 
stood  before  her  who  might  have  posed  as  the 
model  for  Endymion.  He  was  hardly  darker 
than  herself,  and,  to  her  surprise,  he  spoke  to 
her  in  quaint  broken  English. 

"Make  us  the  music  of  your  own  country," 
was  what  she  understood  him  to  say,  and  Tino- 
vao  confirmed  it  by  darting  off  to  the  hut  and 
returning  with  the  violin.  Rachel  took  it, 
and  without  any  conscious  choice  of  a  melody, 
began  to  play  and  sing  the  air  which  had  been 
pulsing  just  below  the  level  of  her  conscious 
ness  ever  since  she  had  left  England: 

"Like  dew  on  the  gowan  lying  is  the  fa  of  her  fairy  feet, 
And  like  winds  in  simmer  sighing,  her  voice  is  low  and 

sweet, 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet,  and  she's  a'  the  world  to  me, 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie,  I'd  lay  me  doon  and  dee." 

The  islanders  listened,  as  if  spellbound;  but 
she  could  not  tell  whether  the  music  went 
home  to  any  of  them,  except  the  boy  who  lay 
at  her  feet  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  face. 
When  the  last  notes  died  away,  the  crowd 
broke  into  applause,  with  cries  of  "Malo! 
Malo!"  But  the  boy  lay  still,  looking  at  her, 
as  a  dog  looks  at  his  mistress.  Then  the  moon- 


MAROONED  261 

light  glistened  in  his  eyes,  and  she  thought 
that  she  saw  tears.  She  bent  forward  a  little 
to  make  sure.  He  rose  with  a  smile,  and 
lifted  her  hand  to  his  face,  so  that  she  might 
feel  that  his  eyes  were  wet. 

"Tears,"  he  said,  "and  I  only  listen.  But 
you — you  make  the  music,  and  no  tears  are  in 
your  eyes."  He  looked  into  her  face. 

"No,"  she  said,  "there  are  no  tears  in  my 
eyes."  Then  she  continued  hurriedly,  as  If 
speaking  to  herself  (and  perhaps  only  a  musi 
cian  would  have  felt  that  the  catch  in  her  voice 
went  a  little  deeper  than  tears)  :  "That's  one 
of  the  things  you  lose  when  you  go  in  for 
music.  It  used  to  be  so  with  me,  too." 

"I  like  your  music,"  the  boy  went  on.  "My 
father — English  sailor.  My  mother — learn 
speak  English — from  him.  She  teach  me. 
My  father  only  stay  here  little  time.  I  never 
see  English  people  before  this." 

Rachel  looked  at  him  with  a  quick  realiza 
tion  of  what  his  words  meant.  The  boy  was 
at  least  eighteen  years  old. 

"You  remember  no  ship  coming  to  this 
island?"  she  said. 

"No.  I  never  see  my  father.  He  only  stay 
here  little  time.  My  mother  think  for  long 


262  WALKING  SHADOWS 

time  he  will  come  again.  That  is  how  she 
die,  only  a  little  time  ago.  Too  much  wait 
ing.  Make  some  more  music.  You  have 
made  my  ears  hungry." 

But  Rachel  was  facing  the  truth  now,  and 
she  played  and  sang  no  more  that  night. 

ill 

For  a  week  or  two,  Rachel  spent  much  time 
alone,  thinking  hard,  thinking  things  out  as 
she  had  never  done  before.  She  did  not  quite 
understand  her  isolation  till  the  first  shock  of 
the  full  discovery  had  passed.  Then,  one 
morning,  sitting  alone,  and  gazing  out  over  the 
spotless  blue,  she  found  herself  accepting  the 
plain  fact,  that  this  might  indeed  be  for  ever. 
She  found  herself  weighing  all  the  chances,  all 
that  she  had  lost,  and  all  that  yet  remained  to 
her.  It  dawned  upon  her,  for  the  first  time, 
that  youth  does  not  lightly  surrender  the  ful 
ness  of  its  life,  at  the  first  disillusionment. 
She  knew  now  that  she  would  have  recovered 
from  that  first  disastrous  love-affair.  She 
knew  now  that  she  had  always  known  it,  and 
that  her  search  had  been  only  for  some  healing 
dittany,  some  herb  of  grace  that  would  heal 
her  wound  more  quickly.  She  faced  it  all — 


MAROONED  263 

the  loss  of  her  birthright  as  a  woman,  the  loss 
of  the  unknown  lover.  She  saw  herself  grow 
ing  old  in  this  loneliness. 

She  weighed  everything  that  was  left  to  her, 
the  freedom  from  all  the  complications  of  life, 
the  beauty  of  her  prison,  the  years  of  youth  and 
strength  that  might  yet  rejoice  in  the  sun  and 
the  sea,  and  even  find  some  companionship 
among  these  children  of  nature  that  rejoiced 
in  them  also.  She  compared  them  with  the 
diseased  monstrosities,  the  hideous  bodies  and 
brutal  faces  that  swarmed  in  the  gray  cities  of 
Europe.  She  saw  nothing  to  alter  her  former 
opinion  here.  She  was  condemned  at  any  rate 
to  live  among  a  folk  that  had  walked  out  of  an 
ode  by  Keats.  But  always,  at  the  end,  she  pic 
tured  herself  growing  old,  with  her  own  life 
unfulfilled. 

Then,  one  day,  a  change  came  over  her. 
She  had  lost  all  count  of  time  in  that  island 
of  lasting  summer;  but  she  must  have  been 
marooned  for  many  months  when  it  happened. 

One  afternoon,  when  she  had  been  swim 
ming  with  Tinovao  and  Amaru,  the  two  girls 
had  run  up  into  the  woods,  to  get  some  fruit, 
leaving  Rachel  to  bask  on  the  beach  alone. 
The  sunlight  of  the  last  few  months  had  tinted 


264  WALKING  SHADOWS 

her  skin  with  a  smooth  rosy  brown  that  would 
have  made  it  difficult  to  distinguish  her  from 
a  native,  except  for  the  contours  of  her  face 
and  the  deep  violet  of  her  eyes,  as  she  lay  on 
that  milk-white  sand.  Before  she  followed 
her  friends,  she  thought  she  would  take  one 
more  ride  through  the  surf.  She  made  her 
way  out,  through  the  gap  in  the  reef,  till  she 
had  reached  the  right  distance.  Then  she 
rested,  treading  water,  while  she  waited  for 
the  big  comber  that  was  to  carry  her  back 
again. 

It  was  her  civilized  intelligence,  perhaps, 
that  betrayed  her  now,  for  she  turned  her  back 
to  the  sea  for  a  moment,  while  she  drank  in  the 
beauty  of  the  feathery  green  palms  and  deli 
cate  tresses  of  the  ironwood  that  waved  along 
the  shore.  She  was  roused  from  her  dreams 
by  the  familiar  muffled  roar  of  the  approach 
ing  breaker,  and  she  turned  her  head  a  few 
seconds  too  late  to  take  the  rush  of  it  as  it 
ought  to  have  been  taken.  It  was  a  giant  and, 
for  almost  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  knew 
the  sensation  of  fear  in  the  sea,  as  the  green 
crest  crumbled  into  white  high  over  her.  In 
that  instant,  too,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
figure  on  the  reef  watching  her.  It  was  the 


MAROONED  265 

figure  of  Rua,  the  boy  who  spoke  English; 
and,  as  the  breaker  crashed  down  with  all  its 
tons  of  water  over  her  head,  she  carried  with 
her  the  impression  that  he  was  about  to  dive 
to  her  rescue.  She  was  whirled  helplessly, 
heels  over  head,  downward  and  downward, 
then  swept  forward  with  the  rushing  whirl 
pools  in  the  blackness  below,  like  a  reed  in  a 
subterranean  river.  She  knew  that  if  she 
could  hold  her  breath  long  enough,  she  would 
rise  to  the  surface ;  but  she  had  reckoned  with 
out  the  perils  of  the  gap  in  the  reef.  Twice 
she  was  whirled  and  caught  against  a  jagged 
piece  of  coral,  which  would  probably  have 
killed  her  if  it  had  struck  her  head.  She  took 
the  warning,  and  held  her  arms  in  the  best  way 
she  could  to  ward  off  any  head-blow.  A 
lacerated  body  would  not  matter  so  much  as 
the  momentary  stunning  that  might  prevent 
her  from  keeping  afloat  when  she  rose.  At 
last,  when  it  seemed  that  she  could  hold  her 
breath  no  longer,  she  shot  with  a  wild  gasp 
to  the  surface  again. 

She  found  that  she  was  only  half-way 
through  the  gap,  not  in  mid-stream  where  she 
would  have  been  comparatively  safe,  but  in  an 
eddy  of  boiling  water,  close  to  the  reef  and 


266  WALKING  SHADOWS 

among  sharp  fangs  of  coral  that  made  it  im 
possible  to  swim.  All  that  she  could  do,  at 
the  moment,  was  to  hold  on  to  the  coral  and 
prevent  herself  from  being  lacerated  against 
it.  The  sharp  edges  of  the  little  shells,  with 
which  it  was  covered  here,  cut  her  hands,  as 
the  water  swirled  her  to  and  fro;  but  she  held 
on,  and  looked  round  for  help. 

Then  she  saw  that  she  was  not  fated  to  re 
ceive  help,  but  to  give  it;  and,  like  lightning  in 
a  tropic  night,  the  moment  changed  her  world. 
She  had  no  time  to  think  it  out  now;  for  she 
saw  the  face  of  Rua,  swirling  up  towards  her 
through  the  green  water,  and  it  looked  like 
the  face  of  a  drowned  man.  His  head  and 
arms  emerged,  and  sank  again,  twice,  before 
she  caught  him  by  the  hand  and  drew  him, 
with  the  strength  of  a  woman  fighting  for  life, 
to  her  side. 

She  was  not  sure  whether  he  was  alive  or 
dead ;  but  she  saw  that,  in  his  hasty  plunge  to 
help  her,  a  dive  that  no  native  would  have 
taken  at  that  place  in  ordinary  circumstances, 
he  had  struck  one  of  the  coral  jags.  Blood 
was  flowing  from  his  head  and,  as  she  held  him 
floating  there  helplessly  for  a  minute,  the  clear 
water  went  away  over  the  white  coral  tinted 


MAROONED  267 

with  little  clouds  of  crimson.  She  waited 
for  the  next  big  wave,  thinking  that  it  would 
save  or  destroy  them  both.  Happily,  it  had 
not  broken  when  it  reached  them;  and,  as  they 
rose  on  the  smooth  back  of  it,  she  held  her 
companion  by  the  hand,  and  struck  out  fiercely 
for  a  higher  shelf  of  the  reef.  It  had  been  out 
of  her  reach  before ;  but  the  wave  carried  them 
both  up  to  its  level,  and  left  them  stranded 
there. 

From  this  point,  the  reef  rose  by  easy  stages ; 
and,  with  the  aid  of  two  more  waves,  she  was 
able  to  lug  Rua  to  a  point  where  there  was  no 
risk  of  their  being  washed  away,  though  the 
clear  water  still  swirled  up  about  them,  and 
went  away  clouded  with  red.  She  lay  there 
for  a  moment  exhausted;  but,  as  her  strength 
came  back  to  her,  the  strange  sensation  that 
flashed  through  her  when  she  had  first  come 
to  the  surface  returned  with  greater  force. 
Much  has  been  said  and  sung  about  the  dawn 
of  wonder  on  the  primitive  mind.  This  was 
an  even  stranger  dawn,  the  dawn  of  wonder 
on  a  daughter  of  the  twentieth  century.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  was  looking  at  the  world 
for  the  first  time,  while  she  lay  there  panting 
and  gazing  out  to  sea,  with  those  red  stains  on 


268  WALKING  SHADOWS 

the  white  coral,  and  her  hands  gripping  the 
slender  brown  hands  of  the  half-drowned  is 
lander.  It  seemed  that  she  had  returned  to 
her  childhood,  and  that  she  was  looking  at  a 
primal  world  that  she  had  forgotten.  She 
saw  now  that  Rua  was  breathing,  and  she  knew 
instinctively  that  he  would  recover.  The 
wave  of  joy  that  went  through  her  had  some 
thing  primitive  and  fierce  in  it,  like  the  joy  of 
the  wild  creatures.  She  felt  like  an  islander 
herself,  and  when  the  sea-birds  hovered  over 
head,  she  called  to  them,  in  the  island  tongue, 
and  felt  as  if  she  had  somehow  drawn  nearer 
to  them.  She  looked  at  the  sea  with  new  eyes, 
as  if  it  were  a  fierce  old  play-mate  of  her  own, 
an  old  tiger  that  had  forgotten  to  sheath  its 
claws  when  it  buffeted  its  cubs.  There  was  a 
glory  in  the  savor  of  life,  like  the  taste  of 
freedom  to  a  caged  bird.  Only  it  was  Europe 
now,  and  the  world  of  houses,  that  seemed  the 
cage.  The  sea  had  never  been  so  blue.  The 
brine  on  her  lips  was  like  the  sacramental  wine 
of  her  new  kinship  with  the  world.  .  .  . 

Then,  looking  at  Rua's  face,  as  the  life  came 
back  to  it,  a  wave  of  compassion  went  through 
her.  Every  contour  of  that  face  told  her  that 
this  boy  also  was  a  victim  of  her  own  kindred. 


MAROONED  269 

He,  too,  was  marooned,  and  more  hopelessly 
than  herself,  for  there  must  be  a  soul  within 
him  that  could  never  even  know  what  it  had 
lost  or  what  it  hungered  for,  unless,  .  .  .  un 
less,  perhaps,  she  could  help  him  out  of  the 
treasures  of  her  own  memory,  and  give  him 
glimpses  of  that  imperial  palace  whence  he 
came. 

It  was  growing  dark  when  they  slipped  into 
the  water  of  the  lagoon  and  swam  slowly  to 
wards  the  beach.  There,  she  helped  him  to 
limp  as  far  as  his  hut,  neither  of  them  speak 
ing.  He  dropped  on  his  knees,  as  she  turned 
to  go,  and  laid  his  face  at  her  feet.  She  stayed 
for  a  moment,  looking  at  him,  and  half  stooped 
to  raise  him ;  but  she  checked  the  impulse,  and 
left  him  abruptly. 

At  the  edge  of  the  wood,  she  turned  to  look 
again,  and  he  was  there  still,  in  the  same  atti 
tude.  There  was  a  dumb  pathos  in  it  that  re 
minded  her  curiously  of  certain  pictures  of  her 
lost  world,  the  peasants  in  the  Angelus  of  Mil 
let,  though  this  was  a  picture  unmarred  by  the 
curse  of  Adam,  the  picture  of  a  dumb  brown 
youthful  god,  perfect  in  physical  beauty,  pray 
ing  in  Paradise  garden  to  the  star  that  trem 
bled  above  the  palms. 


270  WALKING  SHADOWS 

Many  women  (and  most  men)  in  their  un 
guarded  moments,  impute  their  own  good  and 
evil  to  others;  read  their  own  thoughts  in  the 
eyes  around  them;  pity  their  own  tears,  or  the 
tears  of  Vergil,  in  the  eyes  of  "Geist."  But 
Rua  was  praying  to  the  best  he  knew. 

IV 

The  prayer  was  a  long  one.  It  lasted,  in 
various  forms,  for  more  than  a  year.  At 
dawn,  she  would  wake,  and  find  offerings  of 
fruit  and  flowers  left  at  her  door  by  her  faith 
ful  worshiper;  and  often  she  would  talk  with 
him  on  the  beach,  telling  him  of  her  own 
country,  about  which  he  daily  thirsted  to  hear 
more;  for  the  more  he  learned,  the  more  he 
seemed  to  share  her  own  exile.  Music,  too, 
they  shared,  that  universal  language  whose 
very  spirituality  is  its  chief  peril;  for  it  is 
emotion  unattached  to  facts,  and  it  may  mean 
different  things  to  different  people ;  so  that  you 
may  accompany  the  sacking  of  cities  by  the 
thunders  of  Wagner,  or  dream  that  you  see 
angels  in  an  empty  shrine.  Sometimes,  in  the 
evening,  Rua  would  steal  like  a  shadow  from 
the  shadows  around  her  hut,  where  he  had 
been  waiting  to  see  her  pass,  and  would  beg 


MAROONED  271 

her  to  play  the  music  of  her  own  country. 
Then  she  would  sing,  and  he  would  stand  in 
the  doorway  listening,  with  every  pulse  of  his 
body  beating  time,  and  one  brown  foot  tapping 
in  the  dust. 

One  night,  she  had  been  wandering  with 
Tinovao  and  Amaru  by  the  lagoon,  in  which 
the  reflected  stars  burned  so  brightly  that  one 
might  easily  believe  the  island  hung  in  mid- 
heaven.  She  looked  at  them  for  a  long  time; 
then,  with  her  arms  round  the  two  girls,  who 
understood  her  words  only  vaguely,  she  mur 
mured  to  herself:  "What  does  it  matter? 
What  does  anything  matter  when  one  looks 
up  there?  And  life  is  going  .  .  .  life  and 
youth." 

She  said  good-night  to  her  friends,  and 
laughingly  plucked  the  red  hibiscus  flower 
from  behind  the  shell-like  ear  of  Tinovao  as 
they  parted.  When  she  neared  her  door,  a 
shadow  stole  out  of  the  woods,  and  stood  be 
fore  her  on  the  threshold.  His  eyes  were 
shining  like  dark  stars,  the  eyes  of  a  fawn. 
"Music,"  he  pleaded,  "the  music  of  your 
country." 

Then  he  saw  the  red  flower  that  she  wore 
behind  her  ear,  exactly  as  Tinovao  had  worn 


272  WALKING  SHADOWS 

it.  He  stared  at  her,  as  Endymion  must  have 
stared  at  Diana  among  the  poppies  of  Latmos, 
half  frightened,  half  amazed.  He  dropped 
to  his  knees,  as  on  that  night  when  she  had 
saved  him.  He  pressed  his  face  against  her 
bare  feet.  They  were  cold  and  salt  from  the 
sea.  But  she  stooped  now,  and  raised  him. 

"In  my  country,  in  our  country,"  she  said, 
"love  crowns  a  man.  Happy  is  the  love  that 
does  not  bring  the  woman  to  the  dust." 


There  followed  a  time  when  she  was  happy, 
or  thought  herself  happy.  It  must  have  lasted 
for  nearly  seven  years,  the  lifetime  of  that 
dancing  ray  of  sunlight,  the  small  son,  whom 
she  buried  with  her  own  hands  under  a  palm- 
tree.  Then  Rua  deserted  her,  almost  as  a 
child  forsakes  its  mother.  He  was  so  much 
younger  than  herself,  and  he  took  a  younger 
wife  from  among  the  islanders.  When  she 
first  discovered  his  intention,  Rachel  laughed 
mockingly  at  herself,  and  said — also  to  her 
self,  for  she  knew  that  she  had  somehow  lost 
the  power  to  make  Rua  understand  her, — 
"Have  you,  too,  become  an  advanced  thinker, 
Rua?" 


MAROONED  273 

But  Rua  understood  that  it  was  some  kind 
of  mockery;  and,  as  her  mockery  was  keeping 
him  away  from  his  new  fancy,  and  he  was  an 
undisciplined  child,  he  leapt  at  her  in  fury, 
seized  her  by  the  throat,  and  beat  her  face 
against  the  ground.  When  she  rose  to  her 
feet,  with  the  blood  running  from  her  mouth, 
he  saw  that  he  had  broken  out  two  of  her 
teeth.  This  effectively  wrecked  her  beauty, 
and  convinced  him,  as  clearly  as  if  he  had  in 
deed  been  an  advanced  thinker,  that  love  must 
be  free  to  develop  its  own  life,  and  that,  in  the 
interests  of  his  own  soul,  he  must  get  away  as 
quickly  as  possible.  Thereafter,  he  avoided 
her  carefully,  and  she  led  a  life  of  complete 
solitude,  spending  all  her  days  by  the  little 
grave  under  the  palm-tree. 

She  lost  all  count  of  time.  She  only  knew 
that  the  colors  were  fading  from  things,  and 
that  while  she  used  to  be  able  to  watch  the 
waves  breaking  into  distinct  spray  on  the  reef, 
she  could  only  see  now  a  blur  of  white,  from 
her  place  by  the  grave.  She  was  growing  old, 
she  supposed,  and  it  was  very  much  like  going 
to  sleep,  after  all.  The  slow  pulse  of  the  sea, 
the  voice  of  the  eternal,  was  lulling  her  to  rest. 


274  WALKING  SHADOWS 

When  the  schooner  Pearl,  with  its  party 
of  irresponsible  European  globe-trotters, 
dropped  anchor  off  the  island,  it  was  the  first 
ship  that  had  been  seen  there  since  the  arrival 
of  the  Seamew,  the  first  that  had  ever  been 
seen  there  by  many  of  the  young  islanders. 

The  visitors  came  ashore,  shouting  and  sing 
ing,  the  men  in  white  duck  suits,  with  red  and 
blue  pareos  fastened  round  their  waists;  the 
women  in  long  flowing  lava-lavas  of  yellow 
and  rose  and  green,  which  they  had  bought  in 
Tahiti,  for  they  were  going  to  do  the  thing 
properly.  The  lady  in  yellow  had  already 
loosened  her  hair  and  crowned  herself  with 
frangipanni  blossoms.  The  islanders  flocked 
around  them,  examining  everything  they 
wore,  and  decorating  them  with  garlands  of 
flowers,  just  as  they  had  done  with  Rachel's 
party.  The  new  arrivals  feasted  on  the  white 
beach  of  the  lagoon,  in  what  they  believed  to 
be  island  fashion ;  and  when  the  stars  came 
out,  and  the  banjos  were  tired,  they  called  on 
the  islanders  for  the  songs  and  dances  of  the 
South  Seas.  The  lady  in  yellow  tittered  ap 
prehensively,  and  remarked  to  her  neighbor 
in  green,  that  she  had  heard  dreadful  things 
about  some  of  those  dances.  But  she  was 


MAROONED  275 

disappointed  on  this  occasion.  The  plaintive 
airs  rose  and  fell  around  them,  like  the  very 
voice  of  the  wind  in  the  palm  trees;  and  the 
dancers  moved  as  gracefully  as  the  waves 
broke  on  the  shore. 

When  the  islanders  had  ended  their  enter 
tainment,  amidst  resounding  applause,  one  of 
the  young  native  women  called  out  a  name  that 
seemed  to  amuse  her  companions.  They  in 
stantly  echoed  it,  and  one  of  them  snatched  a 
banjo  from  the  hands  of  a  white  man.  Then 
they  all  flew,  like  chattering  birds,  towards  a 
hut,  which  had  kept  its  door  closed  through 
out  the  day. 

They  clamored  round  it,  gleefully  nudging 
each  other,  as  if  in  expectation  of  a  huge  joke. 
At  last,  the  door  opened,  and  a  gray,  bent  old 
woman  appeared.  She  was  of  larger  build 
than  most  of  the  islanders,  and  there  was  some 
thing  in  her  aspect  that  silenced  the  chatterers, 
even  though  they  still  nudged  each  other  slyly. 
The  native  with  the  banjo  offered  it  to  her 
almost  timidly,  and  said  something,  to  which 
the  old  woman  shook  her  head. 

"They  say  she  is  a  witch,"  said  the  Captain 
of  the  Pearl,  who  had  been  listening  to  the 
conversation  of  the  group  nearest  to  him. 


276  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"They  want  her  to  give  us  some  of  her  music. 
She  used  to  sing  songs,  apparently,  before  her 
man  drove  her  out  of  his  house,  in  the  old  days, 
but  she  has  not  sung  them  since.  They  think 
she  might  oblige  our  party,  for  some  strange 
reason.  Evidently,  they've  got  some  little 
joke  they  want  to  play  on  us.  You  know  these 
Kanakas  have  a  pretty  keen  sense  of  humor." 

The  visitors  gathered  round  curiously.  An 
island  witch  was  certainly  something  to  re 
cord  in  their  diaries.  The  old  woman  looked 
at  them  for  a  moment,  with  eyes  like  burning 
coals  through  her  shaggy  elf-locks.  They 
seemed  to  remind  her  of  something  unpleas 
ant.  A  savage  sneer  bared  her  broken  teeth. 
Then  she  took  the  banjo  in  her  shaking  hands. 
They  were  queerly  distorted  by  age  or  some 
disease  and  they  looked  like  the  claws  of  a 
land-crab.  She  sat  down  on  her  own  thresh 
old,  and  touched  the  strings  absently  with  her 
misshapen  fingers.  The  faint  sound  of  it 
seemed  to  rouse  her,  seemed  to  kindle  some 
sleeping  fire  within  her,  and  she  struck  it 
twice,  vigorously. 

The  banjo  is  not  a  subtle  instrument,  but 
the  sound  of  those  two  chords  drew  the  crowd 
to  attention,  as  a  master  holds  his  audience 


MAROONED  277 

breathless  when  he  tests  his  violin  before  play 
ing. 

"Holy  smoke!"  muttered  the  owner  of  the 
banjo,  "where  did  the  old  witch  learn  to  do 
that?" 

Then  the  miracle  began.  The  decrepit  fin 
gers  drew  half  a  dozen  chords  that  went  like 
fire  through  the  unexpectant  veins  of  the  Euro 
peans,  went  through  them  as  a  national  march 
shivers  through  the  soul  of  a  people  when  its 
armies  return  from  war.  The  haggard  burn 
ing  eyes,  between  the  tattered  elf-locks,  moist 
ened  and  softened  like  the  eyes  of  a  Madonna, 
and  the  withered  mouth,  with  its  broken  teeth, 
began  to  sing,  very  softly  and  quaveringly,  at 
first,  but,  gathering  strength,  note  by  note,  the 
words  that  told  of  the  love  of  a  soldier  who 
fought  in  Flanders  more  than  a  hundred  years 
ago: 

"Maxweltons  braes  are  bonnie,  where  early  fa's  the  dew, 
And  it's  there  that  Annie  Laurie  gi'ed  me  her  promise 
true" 

"But  it's  a  white  woman,"  said  the  lady  in 
the  yellow  lava-lava,  who  had  expected  only 
the  islanders  to  shock  her,  "a  white  woman 
gone  native!  How  disgustinM" 


278  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"Ssh!"  said  somebody  else,  "she's  going  to 
give  us  more." 

The  old  witch  hardly  seemed  conscious  of 
their  presence  now.  The  slumbering  sea  of 
music  within  her  was  breaking  up  the  ice 
which  had  sealed  and  silenced  it  for  so  long. 
She  nodded  at  them,  with  shining  eyes,  and 
muttered  thickly,  an  almost  childlike  boast: 

"Oh,  but  I  could  do  better  than  that  once. 
My  fingers  are  stiff.  Wait!" 

She  went  into  her  hut,  and  returned  with 
the  violin.  Tremblingly,  she  opened  a  little 
packet  of  violin  strings. 

"It's  my  last,"  she  said.  "I've  kept  it  very 
carefully;  but  it  won't  be  as  good  as  it  used  to 
be." 

The  throng  watched  her  breathlessly,  as  she 
made  ready,  and  the  trade-wind  hushed  itself 
to  sleep  among  the  palms. 

"When  I  was  in  Europe  last,"  she  said,  "it 
seemed  to  me  there  was  darkness  coming. 
People  had  forgotten  the  meaning  of  music 
like  this.  They  wanted  discord  and  blood  and 
wickedness.  I  didn't  understand  it.  But  you 
could  see  it  coming  everywhere.  Horrible 
pictures.  Women  like  snakes.  Books  like 


MAROONED  279 

lumps  of  poison.  Hatred  everywhere.  Even 
the  musicians  hated  each  other;  and  if  they 
thought  any  one  had  genius,  O  ever  so  little  of 
that — do  you  know — I  think  they  wanted  to 
kill.  Of  course,  I  chose  wrong.  I  ought  to 
have  stayed  and  fought  them.  It's  too  late 
now.  But  you  know  the  meaning  of  this? 
It's  the  cry  over  the  lost  city,  before  the  win 
dows  were  darkened  and  the  daughters  of 
music  brought  low." 

"Crazy  as  a  loon!"  whispered  the  lady  in 
the  yellow  lava-lava. 

The  old  woman  stood  upright  in  the  shadow 
of  a  tall  palm-tree,  a  shadow  that  spread  round 
her  on  the  milk-white  beach  like  a  purple  star. 
Then  her  violin  began  to  speak,  began  to  cry, 
through  the  great  simple  melody  of  the  Largo 
of  Handel,  like  the  soul  of  an  outcast  angel. 

At  the  climax  of  its  infinite  compassion,  two 
strings  snapped  in  quick  succession,  and  she 
sank  to  the  ground  with  a  sob,  hugging  the 
violin  to  her  breast,  as  if  it  were  a  child. 

"That  was  the  last,"  she  said. 

They  saw  her  head  fall  over  on  her  shoul 
der,  as  she  lay  back  against  the  stem  of  the 
palm,  an  old,  old  woman  asleep  in  the  deep 


280  WALKING  SHADOWS 

heart  of  its  purple  star  of  shadow;  and  they 
knew,  instinctively,  even  before  the  Captain 
of  the  Pearl  advanced  to  make  quite  sure,  that 
it  was  indeed  the  last. 


X 

THE  GARDEN  ON  THE  CLIFF 

I  DON'T  know  about  three  acres  and  a 
cow,  but  every  man  ought  to  have  his 
garden.  That's  the  way  I  look  at  it," 
said  the  old  fisherman,  picking  up  another 
yard  of  the  brown  net  that  lay  across  his  knees. 
"There's  gardens  that  you  see,  and  gardens 
that  you  don't  see.  There's  gardens  all  shut 
in  with  hedges,  prickly  hedges  that  'ull  tear 
your  hand  if  you  try  to  make  a  spy-hole  in 
them ;  and  some  that  you  wouldn't  know  was 
there  at  all — invisible  gardens,  like  the  ones 
that  Cap'n  Ellis  used  to  talk  about. 

"I  never  followed  him  rightly;  for  I  sup 
posed  he  meant  the  garden  of  the  heart,  the 
same  as  the  sentimental  song;  but  he  hadn't 
any  use  for  that  song,  so  he  told  me.  My  wife 
sent  it  to  him  for  a  Christmas  present,  think 
ing  it  would  please  him;  and  he  used  it  for 
pipe-lights.  The  words  was  very  pretty,  I 
thought,  and  very  appropriate  to  his  feelings: 

281 


282  WALKING  SHADOWS 

'Ef  I  should  plant  a  little  seed  of  love, 
In  the  garden  of  your  heart. 

That's  how  it  went.     But  he  didn't  like  it. 

"Then  there's  other  gardens  that  every  one 
can  see,  both  market-gardens  and  flower-gar 
dens.  Cap'n  Ellis  told  me  he  knew  a  man 
once  that  wore  a  cauliflower  in  his  buttonhole, 
whenever  he  went  to  chapel,  and  thought  it 
was  a  rose.  Leastways,  he  thought  that  every 
one  else  thought  it  was  a  rose.  Kind  of  an 
orstrich  he  must  have  been.  But  that  wasn't 
the  way  with  Cap'n  Ellis.  Every  one  could 
see  his  garden,  though  he  had  a  nice  big  hedge 
round  three  sides  of  it,  and  it  wasn't  more  than 
three-quarters  of  an  acre.  Right  on  the  edge 
of  the  white  chalk  coast  it  was;  and  his  little 
six-room  cottage  looked  like  a  piece  of  the 
white  chalk  itself. 

"But  he  was  a  queer  old  chap,  and  he  always 
would  have  it  that  nobody  could  really  see  his 
garden.  I  used  to  take  him  a  few  mackerel 
occasionally — he  liked  'em  for  his  supper — 
and  he'd  walk  in  his  garden  with  me  for  half 
an  ho'ur  at  a  time.  Then,  just  as  I'd  be  going 
he'd  give  a  little  smile  and  say,  'Well,  you 
haven't  seen  my  garden  yet!  You  must  come 
again.' 


THE  GARDEN  ON  THE  CLIFF    283 

"  'Haven't  seen  your  garden,'  I'd  say.  'I've 
been  looking  at  it  this  half  hour  an'  more!' 

"  'Once  upon  a  time,  there  was  a  man  that 
couldn't  see  a  joke,'  he'd  say.  Then  he'd  go 
off  chuckling,  and  swinging  his  mackerel 
against  the  hollyhocks. 

"Funny  little  old  chap  he  was,  with  a 
pinched  white  face,  and  a  long  nose,  and  big 
gray  eyes,  and  fluffy  white  hair  for  all  the 
world  like  swans'  down.  But  he'd  been  a 
good  seaman  in  his  day. 

"He'd  sit*  there,  in  his  porch,  with  his  spy 
glass  to  his  eye,  looking  out  over  his  garden 
at  the  ships  as  they  went  up  and  down  the 
Channel.  Then  he'd  lower  his  glass  a  little  to 
look  at  the  butterflies,  fluttering  like  little 
white  sails  over  the  clumps  of  thrift  at  the 
edge  of  the  cliff,  and  settling  on  the  little  pink 
flowers.  Very  pretty  they  was  too.  He 
planted  them  there  at  the  end  of  his  garden, 
which  ran  straight  down  from  his  cottage  to 
the  edge  of  the  cliff.  He  said  his  wife  liked 
to  see  them  nodding  their  pink  heads  against 
the  blue  sea,  in  the  old  days,  when  she  was 
waiting  for  him  to  come  home  from  one  of  his 
voyages.  'Pink  and  blue,'  he  says,  'is  a  very 
pretty  combination.'  They  matched  her  eyes 


284  WALKING  SHADOWS 

and  cheeks,  too,  as  I've  been  told.  But  she's 
been  dead  now  for  twenty-five  years  or  more. 

"He  had  just  one  little  winding  path 
through  the  garden  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff; 
an'  all  the  rest,  at  the  right  time  of  the  year, 
was  flowers.  He'd  planted  a  little  copse  of 
fir  trees  to  the  west  of  it,  so  as  to  shelter  the 
flowers;  and  every  one  laughed  at  him  for 
doing  it.  The  sea  encroaches  a  good  many 
yards  along  this  coast  every  year,  and  the  cliffs 
were  crumbling  away  with  every  tide.  The 
neighbors  told  him  that,  if  he  wanted  a  flower- 
garden,  he'd  better  move  inland. 

"  'It  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  inland,'  he  says, 
'when  Polly  and  me  first  came  to  live  here; 
and  it  hasn't  touched  my  garden  yet.  It  never 
will  touch  it,'  he  says,  'not  while  I'm  alive. 
There  are  good  break-waters  down  below,  and 
it  will  last  me  my  time.  Perhaps  the  trees 
won't  grow  to  their  full  height,  but  I  shan't  be 
here  to  see,'  he  says,  'and  it's  not  the  trees  I'm 
thinking  about.  It's  the  garden.  They  don't 
have  to.be  very  tall  to  shelter  my  garden.  As 
for  the  sea,'  he  says,  'it's  my  window,  my  bay- 
window,  and  I  hope  you  see  the  joke.  If  I 
was  inland,  with  four  hedges  around  my  gar 
den,  instead  of  three,'  he  says,  'it  would  be 


THE  GARDEN  ON  THE  CLIFF     285 

like  living  in  a  house  without  a  window. 
Three  hedges  and  a  big  blue  bay-window, 
that's  the  garden  for  me,'  he  says. 

"And  so  he  planted  it  full  of  every  kind  of 
flowers  that  he  could  grow.  He  had  sweet 
Williams,  and  larkspurs,  and  old  man's  beard, 
and  lavender,  and  gilly-flowers,  and  a  lot  of 
them  old-fashionf  d  sweet-smelling  flowers, 
with  names  tha  he  used  to  say  were  like 
church-bells  at  evening,  in  the  old  villages, 
out  of  reach  of  the  railway-lines. 

"And  they  all  had  a  meaning  to  him  which 
others  didn't  know.  You  might  walk  with 
him  for  a  whole  summer's  afternoon  in  his 
garden,  but  it  seemed  as  if  his  flowers  kept  the 
sweetest  part  of  their  scents  for  old  Cap'n 
Ellis.  He'd  pick  one  of  them  aromatic 
leaves,  and  roll  it  in  his  fingers,  and  put  it  to 
his  nose  and  say  'Ah,'  like  as  if  he  was  talking 
to  his  dead  sweetheart. 

"  'It's  a  strange  thing/  he'd  say,  'but  when 
she  was  alive,  I  was  away  at  sea  for  fully  three 
parts  of  the  year.  We  always  talked  of  the 
time  when  I'd  retire  from  the  sea.  We 
thought  we'd  settle  down  together  in  our  gar 
den  and  watch  the  ships.  But,  when  that  time 
came,  it  was  her  turn  to  go  away,  and  it's  my 


286  WALKING  SHADOWS 

turn  to  wait.  But  there's  a  garden  where  we 
meet,'  he'd  say,  'and  that's  the  garden  you've 
never  seen.' 

"There  was  one  little  patch,  on  the  warmest 
and  most  sheltered  side  that  he  called  his 
wife's  garden ;  and  it  was  this  that  I  thought 
he  meant.  It  was  just  about  as  big  as  her 
grave,  and  he  had  little  clusters  of  her  favorite 
flowers  there — rosemary,  and  pansies  and 
Canterbury  bells,  and  her  name  Ruth,  done 
very  neat  and  pretty  in  Sussex  violets.  It 
came  up  every  year  in  April,  like  as  if  the 
garden  was  remembering. 

"Parson  considered  that  Cap'n  Ellis  was  a 
very  interesting  man. 

"  'He's  quite  a  philosopher/  he  said  to  me 
one  day;  and  I  suppose  that  was  why  the  old 
chap  talked  so  queer  at  times. 

"One  morning,  after  the  war  broke  out,  I'd 
taken  some  mackerel  up  to  Cap'n  Ellis. 

"  'Are  you  quite  sure  they're  fresh,'  he  said, 
the  same  as  he  always  did,  though  they  were 
always  a  free  gift  to  him.  But  he  meant  no 
offense. 

"  'Fresh  as  your  own  lavender,'  I  says,  and 
then  we  laughs  as  usual,  and  sat  down  to  look 
at  the  ships,  wondering  whether  they  were 


THE  GARDEN  ON  THE  CLIFF     287 

transports,  or  Red  Cross,  or  men-of-war,  as 
they  lay  along  the  horizon.  Sometimes  we'd 
see  an  air-plane.  They  used  to  buzz  up  and 
down  that  coast  all  day;  and  Cap'n  Ellis 
would  begin  comparing  it  through  his  glass 
with  the  dragon  flies  that  flickered  over  his 
gilly-flowers.  There  was  a  southwest  wind 
blowing  in  from  the  sea  over  his  garden,  and 
it  brought  us  big  puffs  of  scent  from  the 
flowers. 

"  'Hour  after  hour/  he  says,  'day  after  day, 
sometimes  for  weeks  I've  known  the  south 
west  wind  to  blow  like  that.  It's  the  wind 
that  wrecked  the  Armada,'  he  says,  'and, 
though  it  comes  gently  to  my  garden,  you'd 
think  it  would  blow  all  the  scents  out  of  the 
flowers  in  a  few  minutes.  But  it  don't,'  he 
says.  'The  more  the  wind  blows,  the  more 
sweetness  they  give  out,'  he  says.  'Have  you 
ever  considered,'  he  says,  'how  one  little  clump 
of  wild  thyme  will  go  on  pouring  its  heart  out 
on  the  wind?  Where  does  it  all  come  from?' 

"I  was  always  a  bit  awkward  when  ques 
tions  like  that  were  put  to  me;  so — just  to  turn 
him  off  like — I  says  'Consider  the  lilies  of  the 
field.' 

"  'Ah,'  he  says,  turning  to  me  with  his  eyes 


288  WALKING  SHADOWS 

shining.  'That's  the  way  to  look  at  it.'  I 
heard  him  murmuring  another  text  under  his 
breath,  'Come,  thou  south,  and  blow  upon 
my  garden/  And  he  shook  hands  with  me 
when  I  said  good-bye,  as  if  I'd  shown  him  my 
feelings,  which  made  me  feel  I  wasn't  treat 
ing  him  right,  for  I'd  only  said  the  first  thing 
that  came  into  my  mind,  owing  to  my  awk 
wardness  at  such  times. 

"Well,  it  was  always  disturbing  me  to  think 
what  might  happen  to  Cap'n  Ellis,  if  one  day 
he  should  find  his  garden  slipping  away  to  the 
beach.  It  overhung  quite  a  little  already; 
and  there  had  been  one  or  two  big  falls  of 
chalk  a  few  hundred  yards  away.  Some  said 
that  the  guns  at  sea  were  shaking  down  the 
loose  boulders. 

"Of  course,  he  was  an  old  man  now,  three 
score  years  and  ten,  at  least;  and  my  own  be 
lief  was  that  if  his  garden  went,  he  would  go 
with  it.  The  parish  council  was  very  anxious 
to  save  a  long  strip  of  the  cliff  adjoining  his 
garden,  because  it  was  their  property;  and 
they'd  been  building  a  stone  wall  along  the 
beach  below  to  protect  it  from  the  high  tide. 
But  they  were  going  to  stop  short  of  Cap'n 
Ellis's  property,  because  of  the  expense,  and 


THE  GARDEN  ON  THE  CLIFF     289 

he  couldn't  afford  to  do  it  himself.  A  few  of 
us  got  together  in  the  Plough  and  tried  to 
work  out  a  plan  of  carrying  on  the  wall,  by 
mistake,  about  fifteen  feet  further,  which  was 
all  it  needed.  We'd  got  the  foreman  on  our 
side,  and  it  looked  as  if  we  should  get  it  done 
at  the  council's  expense  after  all,  which  was 
hardly  honest,  no  doubt,  in  a  manner  of  speak 
ing,  though  Cap'n  Ellis  knew  nothing  about  it. 

"But  the  end  came  in  a  way  that  no  wall 
could  have  prevented,  though  it  proved  we 
were  right  about  the  old  man  having  set  his 
heart  in  that  garden.  David  Copper,  the 
shepherd,  saw  the  whole  thing.  It  happened 
about  seven  o'clock  of  a  fine  summer  morn 
ing,  when  the  downs  were  all  laid  out  in  little 
square  patches,  here  a  patch  of  red  clover,  and 
there  a  patch  of  yellow  mustard,  for  all  the 
world  like  a  crazy  quilt,  only  made  of  flowers, 
and  smelling  like  Eden  garden  itself  for  the 
dew  upon  them. 

"It  was  all  still  and  blue  in  the  sky,  and  the 
larks  going  up  around  the  dew-ponds  and 
bursting  their  pretty  little  hearts  for  joy  that 
they  was  alive,  when,  just  as  if  the  shadow  of 
a  hawk  had  touched  them,  they  all  wheeled  off 
and  dropped  silent. 


290  WALKING  SHADOWS 

"Pretty  soon,  there  was  a  whirring  along 
the  coast,  and  one  of  them  air-planes  came  up, 
shining  like  silver  in  the  morning  sun.  Cop 
per  didn't  pay  much  attention  to  it  at  first, 
for  it  looked  just  as  peaceable  as  any  of  our 
own,  which  he  thought  it  was.  Then  he  sees 
a  flash,  in  the  middle  of  Cap'n  Ellis's  garden, 
and  the  overhung  piece,  where  the  little 
clumps  of  thrift  were,  goes  rumbling  down  to 
the  beach,  like  as  if  a  big  bag  of  flour  had 
been  emptied  over  the  side.  The  air-plane 
circled  overhead,  and  Copper  thinks  it  was 
trying  to  hit  the  coast-guard  station,  which 
was  only  a  few  score  yards  away,  though  no 
body  was  there  that  morning  but  the  coast 
guard's  wife,  and  the  old  black  figurehead  in 
front  of  it,  and  there  never  was  any  guns  there 
at  any  time. 

"The  next  thing  Copper  saw  was  Cap'n  El 
lis  running  out  into  what  was  left  of  his  gar 
den,  with  his  night-shirt  flapping  around  him> 
for  all  the  world  like  a  little  white  sea-swal 
low.  He  runs  down  with  his  arms  out,  as  if 
he  was  trying  to  catch  hold  of  his  garden  an' 
save  it.  Copper  says  he  never  knew  whether 
the  old  man  would  have  gone  over  the  edge  of 
the  cliff  or  not.  He  thinks  he  would,  for  he 


THE  GARDEN  ON  THE  CLIFF     291 

was  running  wildly.  But  before  he  reached 
the  edge  there  was  another  flash  and,  when  the 
smoke  had  cleared,  there  was  no  garden  or 
cottage  or  Cap'n  Ellis  at  all,  but  just  another 
big  bite  taken  out  of  the  white  chalk  coast. 

"We  found  him  under  about  fifteen  ton  of 
it  down  on  the  beach.  The  curious  thing  was 
that  he  was  all  swathed  and  shrouded  from 
head  to  foot  in  the  flowers  of  his  garden. 
They'd  been  twisted  all  around  him,  lavender, 
and  gilly-flowers,  and  hollyhocks,  so  that  you'd 
think  they  were  trying  to  shield  him  from 
harm.  P'raps  they've  all  gone  with  him  to 
one  of  them  invisible  gardens  he  used  to  talk 
about,  where  he  was  going  to  meet  his  dead 
sweetheart. 

"They  buried  him  on  the  sunny  side  of  the 
churchyard.  You  can  see  a  bit  of  blue  sea 
between  the  yew  trees  from  where  he  lies,  so 
he's  got  his  window  still;  and  there's  a  very 
appropriate  inscription  on  his  tombstone: 

"Awake,  O  north  wind,  and  come,  thou 
south:  Blow  upon  my  garden,  that  the  spices 
thereof  may  flow  forth." 


XI 

THE  HAND  OF  THE  MASTER 

IT  was  on  Christmas  Day,  1914,  that  I  re 
ceived  one  of  the  strangest  documents  I 
had  ever  read.  It  was  in  the  form  of  a 
letter  from  Jonathan  Martin,  who  had  made 
himself  a  torch  of  ambition  and  fear  to  many 
moths  in  London  by  painting  portraits  that 
were  certain  to  be  the  pictures  of  the  year,  but 
also  certain  to  reveal  all  the  idiosyncrasies, 
good  and  bad,  of  their  subjects.  It  was  the 
fashion  to  call  him  cynical.  In  fact,  he  was 
an  artist,  and  a  great  one. 

His  unusual  power  of  eliciting  unexpected 
meanings  from  apparently  meaningless  inci 
dents  and  objects  was  not  confined  to  his  art. 
In  private  conversation,  he  would  often  startle 
you  with  a  sentence  that  was  like  the  striking 
of  a  match  in  a  dark  room.  You  didn't  know 
that  the  room  was  dark  until  he  spoke;  and 

then,  in  a  flash,  mysterious  relationships  at 

292 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MASTER     293 

which  you  had  never  guessed,  were  estab 
lished.  You  caught  a  glimpse  of  an  order 
and  a  meaning  that  you  had  not  discerned 
before.  The  aimless  thing  over  which  you 
had  barked  your  shin  became  a  coal  scuttle; 
the  serried  row  of  dark  objects  that  irritated 
your  left  elbow  became  the  works  of  Shake 
speare;  and,  if  you  were  lucky,  you  perhaps 
discovered  the  button  by  which  you  could 
switch  on  the  electric  light,  and  then  sit  down 
by  the  hearth  and  read  of  "beauty,  making 
beautiful  old  rhyme." 

But  this  is  a  very  faint  hint  of  the  kind  of 
illumination  with  which  he  would  surprise 
you  on  all  kinds  of  occasions.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  way  in  which  he  brought  into  a 
queer  juxtaposition  "the  Day"  that  Germany 
had  been  toasting  for  forty  years  and  the 
final  request  for  an  answer  before  midnight, 
which  was  embodied  in  the  British  ultimatum. 
He  would  give  you  a  patch  of  unexpected  or 
der  in  the  chaos  of  politics,  and  another  in  the 
chaos  of  the  creeds — patches  that  made  you 
feel  a  maddening  desire  to  widen  them  until 
they  embraced  the  whole  world.  You  felt 
sure  that  he  himself  had  done  this,  that  he 
lived  in  a  re-integrated  universe,  and  that — if 


294  WALKING  SHADOWS 

only  there  were  time  enough — he  could  give 
you  the  whole  scheme.  In  short,  he  saw  the 
whole  universe  as  a  work  of  art;  and  he  con 
ceived  it  to  be  his  business,  in  his  own  art,  to 
take  this  or  that  apparently  isolated  subject 
and  show  you  just  the  note  it  was  meant  to 
strike  in  the  harmony  of  the  whole.  He  was 
very  fond  of  quoting  the  great  lines  of  Dante, 
where  he  describes  the  function  of  the  poet  as 
that  of  one  who  goes  through  the  world  and 
where  he  sees  the  work  of  Love,  records  it. 
But,  please  to  remember,  this  did  not  imply 
that  the  subject  was  necessarily  a  pleasant  one. 
Beauty  was  always  there,  but  the  beauty  was 
one  of  relationships,  not  of  the  thing  itself. 
As  he  once  said,  "an  old  boot  in  the  gutter 
will  serve  as  a  subject  if  you  can  make  it  sig 
nificant,  if  you  can  set  it  in  relation  to  the 
enduring  things."  It  is  necessary  to  make  this 
tedious  preface  to  his  odd  letter,  or  the  point 
of  it  may  be  lost. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  about  the  most  haunting 
and  dramatic  episode  I  have  encountered  dur 
ing  these  years  of  war,"  he  wrote.  "It  was 
a  thing  so  slight  that  I  hardly  know  how  to  put 
it  into  words.  It  couldn't  be  painted,  because 
it  includes  two  separate  scenes,  and  also — in 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MASTER     295 

paint — it  would  be  impossible  to  avoid  the 
merely  sentimental  effect. 

"It  happened  in  London,  during  the  very 
early  days  of  the  struggle.  One  afternoon,  I 
was  riding  down  Regent  Street  on  the  top  of 
a  bus.  The  pavements  were  crowded  with  the 
usual  throng.  Women  in  furs  were  peering 
into  the  windows  of  the  shops.  Newspaper 
boys  were  bawling  the  latest  lies.  Once,  I 
thought  I  saw  a  great  scribble  of  the  Hand 
that  writes  history,  where  a  theater  pos 
ter,  displaying  a  serpentine  woman,  a  kind 
of  Aubrey-Beardsley  vampire,  was  half  ob 
literated  by  a  strong  diagonal  bar  of  red,  bear 
ing  the  words,  'Kitchener  'wants  a  hundred 
thousand  men!  My  mind  was  running  on 
symbols  that  afternoon,  and  I  wondered  if  it 
did  perhaps  mean  the  regeneration  of  art  and 
life  in  England  at  last. 

"Then  we  overtook  a  strange  figure,  a  blind 
man,  tapping  the  edge  of  the  pavement  with 
a  rough  stick,  cut  out  of  some  country  hedge 
row.  He  was  carrying,  in  his  left  hand,  a 
four-foot  pole,  at  the  top  of  which  there  was 
nailed  a  board,  banner-wise,  about  three  feet 
long  and  two  feet  wide.  On  the  back  of  the 
board,  as  we  overtook  him,  I  read  the  French 


296  WALKING  SHADOWS 

text  in  big  red  letters:  VENEZ  A  MOI,  VOUS 
TOUS  QUI  ETES  TRAVAILLES  ET  CHARGES,  ET  JE 
VOUS  SOULAGERAI.' 

"On  the  other  side  of  the  board,  as  we  halted 
by  the  curb  a  little  in  front  of  him,  there  was 
the  English  version  of  the  same  text,  in  big 
black  letters :  'COME  UNTO  ME,  ALL  YE  THAT 
LABOR  AND  ARE  HEAVY-LADEN,  AND  I  WILL  GIVE 
YOU  REST.' 

"The  blind  man  was  tall  and  lean-faced, 
and  held  himself  very  upright.  He  was 
poorly  dressed,  but  very  clean  and  neat.  The 
tap  of  his  stick  was  like  the  smart  tap  of  a 
drum,  and  he  marched  more  rapidly  than  any 
of  those  who  were  going  in  the  same  direc 
tion. 

"There  were  several  things  about  him  that 
puzzled  me.  There  was  no  advertisement  of 
any  sect,  or  any  religious  meeting,  nothing  but 
the  two  texts  on  his  placard.  He  went  past 
us  like  a  soldier,  and  he  carried  it  like  the  flag 
of  his  regiment.  He  did  not  look  as  if  he 
were  asking  for  alms.  The  pride  on  his  face 
forbade  the  suggestion;  and  he  never  slack 
ened  his  quick  pace  for  a  moment.  He 
seemed  entirely  unrelated  to  the  world  around 

him. 

\ 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MASTER     297 

"Possibly,  I  thought,  he  was  one  of  those 
pathetic  beings  whose  emotions  had  been  so 
stirred  by  the  international  tragedy  that,  de 
spite  their  physical  helplessness,  they  were 
forced  to  find  some  outlet.  Perhaps  he  was 
an  old  soldier,  blinded  in  some  earlier  war. 
Perhaps  he  was  merely  a  religious  fanatic. 
In  any  case,  in  the  great  web  of  the  world's 
events,  he  seemed  to  be  a  loose  fantastic 
thread;  and  although  he  was  carrying  a  more 
important  message  than  any  one  else,  nobody 
paid  any  attention  to  him. 

"In  a  few  moments,  the  bus  had  carried  my 
thoughts  and  myself  into  other  regions,  and, 
for  the  time;  I  forgot  him.  I  occupied  my 
self,  as  I  often  do,  in  composing  a  bit  of  dog 
gerel  to  the  rhythm  of  the  wheels.  Here  it  is. 
It  is  pretty  bad,  but  the  occasion  may  make  it 
interesting: 

Once,  as  in  London  bussest 

At  dusk  I  used  to  ride. 
The  faces  Hogarth  painted 

Would  rock  from  side  to  side. 
All  gross  and  sallow  and  greasy, 

And  dull  and  leaden-eyed. 

They  nodded  there  before  me 
In  such  fantastic  shape, 


298  WALKING  SHADOWS 

The  donkey  and  the  gosling, 
The  sheep,  the  whiskered  ape, 

With  so  much  empty  chatter, 
So  many  and  foolish  lies, 

I  lost  the  stars  of  heaven 

Through  looking  in  their  eyes. 

"Late  in  the  afternoon,  I  was  returning 
westward,  along  the  Strand.  I  remember 
walking  slowly  to  look  at  the  beauty  of  the 
sunset  sky,  against  which  the  Nelson  column, 
in  those  first  days  of  the  fight,  rose  with  a  more 
spiritual  significance  than  ever  before.  The 
little  Admiral  stood  like  a  watchman,  looking 
out  to  sea,  from  the  main  mast  of  our  Ship  of 
State,  against  that  dying  glory.  It  was  the 
symbol  of  the  national  soul,  high  and  stead 
fast  over  the  great  dark  lions,  round  which  so 
many  quarreling  voices  had  risen,  so  many 
quarreling  faces  had  surged  and  drifted 
away  like  foam  in  the  past.  This  was  the 
monument  of  the  enduring  spirit,  a  thing  to 
still  the  heart  and  fill  the  eyes  of  all  who  speak 
our  tongue  to-day. 

"I  was  so  absorbed  in  it  that  I  did  not  notice 
the  thick  crowd,  choking  the  entrances  to 
Charing  Cross  Station,  until  I  was  halted  by 
it.  But  this  was  a  very  different  crowd  from 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MASTER     299 

those  of  peace-time.  They  were  all  very  si 
lent,  and  I  did  not  understand  what  swarming 
instinct  had  drawn  them  together.  Nor  did 
they  understand  it  themselves — yet.  'I  think 
they  are  expecting  something/  was  the  only 
reply  I  got  to  my  inquiry. 

"I  made  my  way  round  to  the  front  of  the 
station,  but  the  big  iron  gates  were  closed  and 
guarded  by  police.  Nobody  was  allowed  to 
enter  the  station.  Little  groups  of  railway 
porters  were  clustered  here  and  there,  talking 
in  low  voices.  I  asked  one  of  these  men  what 
was  happening. 

"  'They're  expecting  something,  some  train. 
But  we  don't  know  what  it  is  bringing.' 

"As  he  spoke,  there  was  a  movement  in  the 
crowd.  A  compact  body  of  about  forty  am 
bulance  men  marched  through,  into  the  open 
space  before  the  station.  Some  of  them  were 
carrying  stretchers.  They  looked  grave  and 
anxious.  Some  of  their  faces  were  tense  and 
white,  as  if  they  too  were  expecting  something, 
something  they  almost  dreaded  to  see.  This 
was  very  early  in  the  war,  remember,  before 
we  knew  what  to  expect  from  these  trains. 

"The  gates  of  the  station  swung  open.  The 
ambulance  men  marched  in.  A  stream  of 


3oo  WALKING  SHADOWS 

motor  ambulances  followed.     Then  the  gates 
were  closed  again. 

"I  waited,  with  the  waiting  crowd,  for  half 
an  hour.  It  was  impossible  now  to  make  one's 
way  through  the  dense  crush.  From  where  I 
stood,  jammed  back  against  the  iron  railings, 
in  front  of  the  station,  I  could  see  that  all  the 
traffic  in  the  Strand  was  blocked.  The  busses 
were  halted,  and  the  passengers  were  standing 
up  on  the  top,  like  spectators  in  some  enor 
mous  crowded  theater.  The  police  had  more 
and  more  difficulty  in  keeping  the  open  space 
before  the  station.  At  last,  the  gates  were 
swung  apart  again,  and  the  strangest  proces 
sion  that  London  had  ever  seen  began  to  come 
out. 

"First,  there  were  the  sitting-up  cases — 
four  soldiers  to  a  taxicab,  many  of  them  still 
bandaged  about  the  brows  with  the  first  blood 
stained  field  dressings.  Most  of  them  sat  like 
princes,  and  many  of  them  were  smiling;  but 
all  had  a  new  look  in  their  faces.  Officers 
went  by,  gray-faced;  and  the  measure  of  their 
seriousness  seemed  to  be  the  measure  of  their 
intelligence,  rather  than  that  of  their  wounds. 
Without  the  utterance  of  a  word,  the  London 
crowd  began  to  feel  that  here  was  a  new  thing. 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MASTER     301 

The  army  of  Britain  was  making  its  great 
fighting  retreat,  before  some  gigantic  force 
that  had  brought  this  new  look  into  the  faces 
of  the  soldiers.  It  was  our  first  real  news 
from  the  front.  From  the  silent  faces  of  these 
men  who  had  met  the  first  onset  with  their 
bodies,  we  got  our  first  authentic  account  of 
the  new  guns  and  the  new  shells,  and  the  new 
hell  that  had  been  Igosed  over  Europe. 

"But  the  crowd  had  not  yet  fully  realized  it. 
A  lad  in  khaki  came  capering  out  of  the  sta 
tion,  waving  his  hands  to  the  throng  and  shout 
ing  something  that  sounded  like  a  music-hall 
jest.  The  crowd  rose  to  what  it  thought  was 
the  old  familiar  occasion. 

"  'Hello,  Tommy!  Good  boy,  Tommy! 
Shake  hands,  Tommy  I  Are  we  down 
hearted,  Tommy?7  The  old  vacuous  roar  be 
gan  and,  though  all  the  faces  near  me  seemed 
to  have  two  eyes  in  them,  every  one  began  to 
look  cheerful  again. 

"The  capering  soldier  stopped  and  looked 
at  them.  Then  he  made  a  grotesque  face,  and 
thrust  his  tongue  out.  He  looked  more  like 
a  gargoyle  than  a  man. 

"The  shouts  of  Tommy,  Tommy,'  still  con 
tinued,  though  a  few  of  the  shouters  were  evi- 


302  WALKING  SHADOWS 

dently  puzzled.  Then  a  brother  soldier,  with 
his  left  arm  in  the  sling,  took  the  arm  of  the 
comedian,  and  looked  a  little  contemptuously 
at  the  crowd. 

"  'Shell-shock,'  he  said  quietly.  And  the 
crowd  shouted  no  more  that  day.  It  was  not 
a  pleasant  mistake ;  and  it  was  followed  by  a 
procession  of  closed  ambulances,  containing 
the  worst  cases. 

"Then  came  something  newer  even  than 
wounded  men,  a  motley  stream  of  civilians,  the 
Belgian  refugees.  They  came  out  of  the  sta 
tion  like  a  flock  of  sheep,  and  the  fear  of  the 
wolf  was  still  in  their  eyes.  The  London 
crowd  was  confronted  by  this  other  crowd,  so 
like  itself,  a  crowd  of  men  in  bowler  hats  and 
black  coats,  of  women  with  children  clinging 
to  their  skirts;  and  it  was  one  of  the  most  dra 
matic  meetings  in  history.  The  refugees  were 
carrying  their  household  goods  with  them,  as 
much  as  could  be  tied  in  a  bundle  or  shut  in  a 
hand-bag.  Some  of  the  women  were  weep 
ing.  One  of  them — I  heard  afterwards — had 
started  with  four  children  but  had  been  sep 
arated  from  the  eldest  in  the  confusion  of  their 
flight.  It  was  doubtful  whether  they  would 
ever  be  re-united. 


THE  HAND  OF  THE  MASTER     303 

"Now,  as  this  new  crowd  streamed  out  of 
the  gates  of  the  station  towards  the  vehicles 
that  had  been  prepared  for  them,  some  of  their 
faces  lifted  a  little,  and  a  light  came  into  them 
that  was  more  than  the  last  radiance  of  the 
sunset.  They  looked  as  if  they  had  seen  a 
friend.  It  was  a  look  of  recognition;  and 
though  it  was  only  a  momentary  gleam,  it  had 
a  beauty  so  real  and  vivid  that  I  turned  my 
head  to  see  what  had  caused  it. 

"And  there,  over  the  sea  of  faces  that 
reached  now  to  the  foot  of  the  Nelson  column, 
I  saw  something  that  went  through  me  like 
great  music.  Facing  the  gates  of  the  station, 
and  lifting  out  of  the  midst  of  the  crowd  like 
the  banner  of  a  mighty  host,  nay,  like  the  ban 
ner  of  all  humanity,  there  was  a  placard  on  a 
pole.  The  sunset-light  caught  it  and  made  it 
blaze  like  a  star.  It  bore,  in  blood-red  letters, 
the  solemn  inscription  that  I  had  seen  in  the 
earlier  part  of  the  day:  'VENEZ  A  MOI,  VOUS 
TOUS  QUI  ETES  TRAVAILLES  ET  CHARGES,  ET  JE 
VOUS  SOULAGERAI.' 

"My  blind  man  had  found  his  niche  in  the 
universe.  It  was  hardly  possible  that  he  was 
even  conscious  of  what  he  was  doing;  hardly 
possible  that  he  knew  which  side  of  his  ban- 


304  WALKING  SHADOWS 

ner  was  turned  towards  the  refugees,  whether 
it  was  the  English,  that  would  mean  nothing 
to  them,  or  the  French  that  would  speak  to 
them  like  a  benediction.  He  had  been  swung 
to  his  place  and  held  in  it  by  external  forces, 
held  there,  as  I  myself  was  jammed  against 
the  iron  railings.  But  he  had  become,  in  one 
moment,  the  spokesman  of  mankind;  and  if 
he  had  done  nothing  else  in  all  his  life,  it  had 
been  worth  living  for  that  one  unconscious 
moment. 

"You  may  be  interested  to  hear  the  conclu 
sion  of  the  doggerel  which  came  into  my  head 
as  I  went  home : 

Now,  as  I  ride  through  London, 

The  long  wet  vistas  shine, 
Beneath  the  wheeling  searchlights, 

As  they  were  washed  with  wine, 
And  every  darkened  window 

Is  holy  as  a  shrine. 

The  deep-eyed  men  and  women 

Are  fair  beyond  belief, 
Ennobled  by  compassion, 

And  exquisite  with  grief. 
Along  the  streets  of  sorrow 

A  river  of  beauty  rolls. 
The  faces  in  the  darkness 

Are  like  immortal  souls. 


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